


The Light Within

by mirqueen



Series: The Luminary [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005), Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012), Justice League, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League Unlimited
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Tragedy, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 143,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirqueen/pseuds/mirqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The members of the Justice League save a young woman who knows much more than the League bargained for, yet Batman himself trusts her and takes her in. But this stranger’s arrival prompts secrets and events that could not have been foretold and inadvertently leads to the creation of the mysterious persona known only as ‘Enigma’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Complicated

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the" _mysterious entity known only as ‘Enigma’_ …"(from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
My inspiration and background for this story is mainly the cartoon  _Justice League_ _/Justice League Unlimited_ and the _Dark Knight_ trilogy. I don't do the comics or _Batman: TAS_ unless I really like an event in them, which is kind of rare but not unheard of. I love Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Heath Ledger, and Morgan Freeman in their roles, so they will be more TDK-inspired than anything else.

Meara is pronounced “MEER-ah.” It’s an Irish name which means ‘ocean.’

> **Prologue: Complicated**

It seemed like an easy morning mission from the moment the call came in from the mayor's office. Four villains – all amateurs – causing a ruckus on the outskirts of Detroit. Hence why Green Lantern was presently rounding up the escapees, who had been easily caught with a few simple tactics of the military variety. All four were now tied up and ready to be taken into police custody.

Suddenly a blast went off on Green Lantern's left, sending showers of brick and glass and debris of all kinds flying thirty feet out from the wall of a nearby drugstore.

"What the—?" The hero jumped back in shock as he glanced down at a villain he had not known about — Devil Ray was stepping from the middle of the cloud, holding his gun to the head of a brown-haired teenage girl who looked as horrified as the lantern felt. Tears streamed silently down her face, but he was willing to bet she didn't even know it.

"Devil Ray! He has a hostage!" he called out, both to warn J'onn J’onnz over the recently activated communicator and to stop the police from closing in and possibly causing the girl's demise. The police didn't even hear him over their own chattering tumult and that of the incoming news crew, which clearly didn't understand the point of dangerous.

And of course, Green Lantern hadn't accepted help from someone else for this mission. J’onn had offered, as had Flash, but Lantern refused it and said he could handle it easy. All because he was too proud to let his hometown get protected by anyone else. He knew it was a big enough job, with four villains all loose in the same low-down area. But he hadn't thought about hostages in the mix, he had obviously underestimated his quarries, and he had not expected an extra villain to show up.

"They told us there were only four bad guys loose!" Flash incredulously remarked up in the watchtower, avidly watching the news channel J'onn had pulled up as he leaned over the Martian's shoulder.

"And no civilians left in the area," J'onn added agitatedly, searching furiously for any layouts of the buildings in the immediate vicinity of the scuffle. The government files were frustratingly lacking. Apparently this disorganization was another area of ineptitude the local government faced.

"Looks like they missed one on both counts," Green Lantern angrily remarked, hurrying to stop the police again, "Stand down! We have a hostage situation!"

Unfortunately for the lantern, the police didn't hear anything of his second warning, thanks to another blast from a nearby liquor store and the resulting commotion.

"What was that?" J'onn asked sharply, pausing mid-search to look up at the screen and find another cloud of debris floating in the air.

"One of Devil Rays' party favors was a little late," Green Lantern answered sarcastically, following with his eyes as the villain in question slipped hurriedly into a jewelry store with his hostage. Catching sight of the empty parking lot behind the building, Green Lantern grew alarmed. Hadn't the police even thought to block off the next street?

Now he knew why criminals got away with so much in the city of his birth.

"I'm going around back," he told J'onn. "They haven't even blocked off the other side."

"There should be a connecting door between the front and back of the jewelry store," the Martian informed him, finally having found a recent schematic of the street's businesses. "You may be able to avoid detection that way, but I am sending in the nearest backup. If Devil Ray is any example, there could be someone waiting in the wings for the right moment to strike. Stand by."

As the communicator beeped in standby, Green Lantern flew around the neighboring doughnut shop in the hopes of avoiding detection and headed to the back of the jewelry store, slipping inside silently, his ring at the ready. Through the minuscule opening from the door between front and back, Green Lantern could see Devil Ray was now making demands of the police through the shaking voice of another civilian who had been overlooked and was now at the point of the villain's gun. The shop owner was probably old enough to be Lantern's grandfather and he was feeble to boot. Devil Ray just had to take up the weakest victims, apparently. Not that it surprised Lantern.

The girl from outside was nowhere in Green Lantern's immediate line of vision and he hoped she wasn't already dead. For all he knew, Devil Ray could have muffled the sound of the gun being fired so no one would suspect yet.

Lantern didn't know how to slip into the shop behind his quarry without alerting the villain and forcing a shooting. The slightest creak from the intervening door and he would give himself away. To make things worse, he could see a booby trap atop the mostly-closed wooden barrier.

All of a sudden his communicator beeped out of standby.

"Backup is in the vicinity," J'onn spoke quietly to Lantern, having located him as being inside the building already. "But be careful. Both hostages are still alive and neither is going to be easily freed."

In a slight twist of luck, Devil Ray arrogantly loosened the hold on his gun, holding it at an awkward angle for shooting. In the few seconds it took to aim and shoot, Green Lantern could knock the gun away with a burst of green energy.

He was startled from his planning by the sudden sound of gunfire out in front. Were the police crazy?

"They're nuts!" Flash echoed incredulously in Lantern’s ear, jaw dropping as he watched the police open fire as a warning. J'onn practically growled his frustration.

Green Lantern thought quickly of some sort of plan. Devil Ray was ready to pull the trigger, lifting the gun into position, and he had all of a few seconds to stop it.

Just when Green Lantern had his ring aimed through the crevice of the doorway, a dark object came hurling out of nowhere to knock the gun across the room from its user. Sparing the briefest of glances at the object, he noticed the distinct shape of a batarang. Relief bled into the lantern's system. If anyone could sneak into the situation so easily without Devil Ray's notice, it was Batman.

The shop owner dived with surprising agility for his age, just as the caped crusader swooped in through the smashed front window. Taking advantage of the noise, Green Lantern threw open the door and aimed. Devil Ray knew he was caught, but as the green energy rushed to enclose him, he threw something tiny at the trembling girl huddled off to the side of the room.

She began to scream shrilly when it made contact, and it wasn't until after Lantern caught Devil Ray in an energy field that he realized the thrown object had been a tiny dart. Leaving Batman to hurry over and assess the girl, whose latest scream ended too abruptly for his liking, Lantern angrily took Devil Ray out to the waiting police escort.

It was ironic how quickly the event had ended when he had backup, Green Lantern decided as he watched the criminals get carted away and the shop owner undergo a checkup by the lone medic on the scene. One more mark against his hometown, the hero thought resignedly.

"Lantern!"

Turning at the sound of Batman's urgent voice, Green Lantern rushed back inside the store to find the other man leaning over the first hostage with deep concern on the part of his face that Lantern could see. The girl looked half dead; her breathing was shallow and her already pale skin leaned towards translucence more than any particular color. Strange little gashes that looked slightly blue around the edges littered her face and what was visible of her skin elsewhere didn't look much better.

"What can I do?" he responded quickly, crouching near the two.

"Take her up to watchtower," Batman instructed him at top speed. "J'onn will give her the Ellipse treatment."

"Ellipse!" Green Lantern exclaimed in shock. "But isn't that the Scarecrow's new drug? How did Devil Ray get it? And why are we taking a civilian up to the watchtower?"

"I don't know the how yet," was the curt reply. "I do know she'll die without treatment in the next two hours. And the watchtower is the only place that has any. I used the last of my stores when Harley Quinn spread the trash around Gotham last week. It was running far too rampantly."

"What are _you_ going to do?" Green Lantern asked, distantly curious why Batman was not joining him in assuring the girl's welfare.

"I have to find out what I can about this incident. Now go!"

Green Lantern had always appreciated the ability to travel through space without waiting for a vehicle. Now, with a dying young girl on his hands, the lantern was even more grateful. He cut it close enough as it was. Waiting for a transport would have meant the girl's death.

J'onn was already waiting in the med bay with the treatment set up when the former marine flew in with his charge and swiftly laid her on the nearest bed. Her skin had generated twice as many of the odd gashes since Green Lantern left Earth for the watchtower. She was bleeding profusely now, something J'onn looked rather concerned about, but did not speak of out loud as he waved the other two heroes away.

It was two hours later that the Martian finally exited the med bay. Wonder Woman, Hawkgirl, and Superman had since returned from their mission in Guatemala and gleaned every possible detail from the two waiting heroes by the time J'onn appeared.

"How is she?" Superman asked for all of them.

"She is healing well," the Martian smiled vaguely. "Her body was healthy before Devil Ray gave her the ellipse toxin, which always aids in recovery time. Most of the gashes have been sealed, thanks to the accelerant Batman added to the antidote. She is sedated now."

"Thank Hera," Wonder Woman sighed.

"Do we have any idea why today happened?" Hawkgirl questioned them concernedly.

"It does seem a little odd that four villains escaped and then were caught so easily," Green Lantern admitted unhappily. "With no real purpose accomplished either."

"Then Devil Ray shows up unexpectedly," Flash added. "Throwing bombs everywhere."

"And gives a random girl some toxin that shouldn't even be out in Gotham after what happened last time, let alone a couple states away," Superman sighed worriedly. "It is troublesome, I agree. But we really don't have enough information right now. Batman should be able to find something significant to work with."

"Any idea when he's coming back?" Wonder Woman asked.

"You know Batman," Superman shook his head. "Not until he's ready."

"What about the girl?" Hawkgirl brought up. "Do we know who she is?"

"Not yet," J'onn responded. "She did not have any identification on her person."

"What about a blood sample?" the Thanagarian wondered.

"I do not wish to take a blood sample when she has already lost so much," J'onn shook his head. "I have set up a transfusion with the donated blood Batman obtained for the med bay. After the transfusion is complete and she wakes, I will have to take a sample to check for any lingering infections anyway, so I will be able to check her identity then."

"When do you expect her to wake up?" Lantern inquired.

"The sedative will wear off in approximately four hours. Other than that, I do not know."

"We can wait," Wonder Woman decided firmly. "She needs rest after dealing with that toxin."

"We need to contact her family as soon as we know who she is, though," Superman suggested sympathetically. "They must be worried sick about her."

"Still, it's important to get as much information from her as we can," Green Lantern declared sternly. "That girl is the only person who seems to be really connected to this whole thing. The jewelry store owner didn't have a clue what was going on, so we can't learn anything from him."

"Why should that girl know more than the shop owner did?" Hawkgirl commented, frowning.

"I don't know, but for some reason I think she does," the green-clad man announced. "If Batman doesn't come back with something before the sedative wears off, I'm going to ask that girl some questions."

"For her sake, I hope we see Bats before the four hours is up," the fastest of the League muttered as Green Lantern stalked off irritably.

Four hours came and went.

Wonder Woman, Flash, and Lantern caught Copperhead and Killer Frost in Turkey, while Superman took care of a terrorist at the United Nations.

Hawkgirl nearly removed the heads of a particularly stupid group of armed robbers in D.C., who apparently thought it would be funny to mock her angelic-looking wings. That was, of course, before she launched into their midst with her mace lifted into the air and a Herculean war cry on her lips.

Green Lantern actually snorted when he and J'onn watched it on the monitor screen.

Still there was no sign of Batman on the watchtower.

Lantern did, indeed, head into the medical bay exactly one minute after eleven o'clock — the four-hour mark. The other five leaguers followed disapprovingly, yet curious in spite of themselves. J'onn carefully checked the patient's vitals and forced Green Lantern to wait until he was certain of her faculties.

Fifteen minutes after they had arrived in the med bay, the girl's pale lids fluttered open to reveal eyes the color of a stormy sea. When her still-drowsy gaze fell on her Martian caretaker, the first words out of the girl's mouth put Green Lantern on edge and everyone else in shock.

"J'onn J'onnz?" she queried groggily, albeit a little reluctantly, then immediately asked, "Am I in the watchtower?"

Even J'onn was at a loss as to how she knew his name, staring at his patient in amazement. Before anyone else could say a world, Green Lantern started in with his questions, rougher than he had originally planned to be, now that he knew the girl had above-average information she should not have.

"How do you know where you are?" he grated out, arms folded across his chest as he stalked forward to stand beside her bed.

"Wait until she is fully awake," J'onn sharply reprimanded his colleague, the strength in his words giving the lantern pause, although to his satisfaction it didn't take long for the girl to wake up completely, staring at the upset lantern in surprise.

"What happened?" she wondered skittishly.

"What is the last thing you remember?" J'onn asked calmly.

"Devil Ray hit me with some kind of dart," she responded, trying hard to concentrate through the fog she had been under for the last ten hours. "It felt like someone poured acid all over me and I just started screaming. Then Batman hovered over me for a minute, injected me with something. After that I must have blacked out, I guess. I don't remember much else. Except once… something else poked my arm. But I never really woke up from it."

"That would have been the antidote I administered," J'onn explained. "Batman's injection was a general pre-medication for pain and infection."

"Thank you," the girl smiled vaguely at J'onn, absently rubbing her arms.

"As I said a moment ago," Green Lantern abruptly continued as if he had never been interrupted, "how do you know where you are?"

"I didn't until now," the girl remarked, although the quaver in her voice decreased the effect of the words. Hawkgirl had to hold in a snort all the same.

Green Lantern was none too pleased with her wit, ignoring her answer and moving on rudely, "All right, we'll start with a question you can comprehend. What's your name?"

"Meara," the girl offered hesitantly, looking reluctant to divulge that information to her rude interviewer. "My name is Meara."

"A very unique name," Wonder Woman smiled at the girl, trying to soothe her. Answers would come easier if Green Lantern would just ease up a little.

"What's your last name?" the hero in question took over the interview again, much to everyone's consternation, setting the girl back on edge.

"Nolan," she replied, shrinking but barely at the perpetual scowl on her interrogator's face.

"Miss Nolan," Superman cut in finally, having had enough of his fellow leaguer's attitude for the time being, "Can you tell us anything else about what happened today?"

"Not really," she replied nervously, shifting awkwardly on the bed. "I remember I was leaving class and my ride didn't show up, so I had to walk. In the middle of the way back, I… found myself being dragged off."

"Funny, but I recall that today is a _Saturday_ ," Green Lantern pointed out sarcastically.

"What does that have to do with it?" Meara wondered blankly. Except for Lantern, everyone became a little worried for her psychological well-being.

"You're really going to stick with that?" Lantern asked irritably.

"Yes, I am," Meara firmly replied.

"Is there any particular reason that he would choose you?" Wonder Woman asked.

"None that I know of," the girl answered, shaking her head in the negative.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" Green Lantern exclaimed in agitation.

"Lantern, stop," Hawkgirl ordered him sternly, but he wasn't listening.

"Who are your parents?" the suspicious hero asked.

"Gerald and Shannon Nolan," she answered, resigned to his interrogation.

"Grandparents?" he went on quickly.

"Brody and Connie Nolan, Cameron and Isla O'Neil," was the prompt response.

"With your permission, Miss Nolan," Superman spoke again, stopping Lantern in his tracks. "J'onn wanted to take a blood sample, to make certain there is no residue from the toxin left in your bloodstream."

The girl sighed deeply before responding, "Which essentially means you want to make sure I am who I say I am, correct?"

"Er…" Superman floundered, leaving J'onn to pick up the discussion with a hint of amusement.

"I apologize, Miss Nolan," the Martian smiled a tiny bit. "I do not mean to question your sincerity, but we must be sure of everything."

"Go ahead, then," she sighed more heavily than before. "Although I have a bad feeling you won't find me on any registry on Earth."

"Why not?" Lantern jumped in instantly, suspicious.

"I can't explain," she admitted slowly, reluctantly. "I don't know how I know, it's just a feeling."

"Why don't we let J'onn find out exactly what you know?" Green Lantern suggested harshly.

"I am not going to interrogate her for no reason," J'onn argued.

"No reason?" Lantern repeated incredulously, forcing himself to lower his voice and drag the Martian off to the side of the room, followed by the others. "She knew you and this station without ever having been here before!"

"She might have heard one of you say my name while she was half-asleep," the Martian pointed out rationally. "And if I am here, with an orbit of Earth in the background…"

"She could have simply connected the two," Superman completed the sentence. "That's true."

"Look," Meara spoke up, face weary as the superheroes continued to argue in inaudible whispers. "If you're not opposed, I would probably prefer to have J'onn look into my mind and see that way. It's much simpler."

"Are you certain?" J'onn asked in concern, returning to her side.

"Positive," she confirmed.

"Very well," he nodded, settling himself in the seat beside her bed and reaching out to create the connection to her mind.

It took approximately fifty minutes for J'onn to get what he needed before he left his charge's mind, face clearer than it had been all that day.

"You should rest now," he told Meara, helping her to lie back onto her bed tiredly. She was even more tired than before, it seemed.

The six leaguers took their conversation out into the med bay observatory while the girl rested, Wonder Woman and Flash both offering reassuring smiles as they left the room.

* * *


	2. Chapter 1: Forewarned

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics once had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as ‘Enigma’_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
I've improvised what Zatanna is capable of – not entirely sure of her full range of powers.

> **Chapter 1: Forewarned**

Green Lantern took a defensive stance once in the observatory, throwing a suspicious glance at the now-sleeping girl on the other side of the glass as he wondered archly, "How do we know she isn't lying about these relatives of hers?"

"She is telling the truth," J'onn J’onnz shook his head somewhat mournfully. "Her memories are quite real. And very emotional in some cases. Such strong attachment would not be present in her mind otherwise."

"Then why in the heck can't we find her or any of her family in our databases?" Flash questioned him in surprise, lifting his arms up confusedly.

"Perhaps she's from an alternate timeline?" Wonder Woman suggested thoughtfully. "We  _have_  seen that before."

Superman started at the mention, clarifying uncomfortably, "The Justice Lords?"

"I doubt she would know all about our world if that was the case," J'onn added with a shake of his head. "The Justice Lords would not want anyone to remember the way things were before they took power."

"You don't think they…" Hawkgirl began to suggest tentatively, but was almost afraid to continue her sobering thought.

"Sent her on purpose?" Superman finished the unspoken thought for her, nodding a little in thought. "I hate to say it, but I wondered about that."

"You hate to say it?" Green Lantern questioned the man of steel in shock. "We have a possible threat on our hands and you're worried about thinking badly of the source?"

"Well, I know I may sound naïve," Superman responded with a sigh that said he knew they would definitely think him just that, "but I feel like we can trust this girl. There's something about her…"

"You feel drawn to her," Wonder Woman offered up knowingly. "Like you need to help her."

"Exactly," Superman replied, stunned. "How did you know that?"

"Because I feel it too," the Amazon admitted warily. "I didn't want to say anything, in case I was just putting emotions ahead of rational fact because I felt badly for her."

"I didn't feel any of that," Green Lantern stubbornly held to his suspicion, making Superman sigh again, this time exasperatedly.

"I did, though," Hawkgirl confessed equally as carefully as Wonder Woman. Her gaze jumped to the girl in the other room with cautious interest.

"So did I," J'onn agreed quietly.

"I don't know if that's what I felt," Flash entered the conversation again, "but I don't think she's going to cause us any trouble. Does that count?"

Wonder Woman smiled at the speedster. "I think it's close enough."

"I still say Hawkgirl's idea was the right one," Green Lantern kept up his hard-headed approach, crossing his arms defensively.

"Hey, don't put that off on me!" the woman in question immediately responded, glaring at him. "I just wondered if it was possible. I didn't say it was the best idea out there!"

"What does it matter?" he barked back. "She could be dangerous! What if she has the power to make us  _think_  we can trust her, even if we actually shouldn't?"

"She doesn't have any powers at all," came a familiar, gruff voice from the entrance to the med bay. Everyone except Superman turned suddenly to find the hero they had been waiting on. Only he was now leveling a glare towards Green Lantern.

"What's your problem?" the green-clad hero wondered in surprise. Usually Batman was the first to follow conspiracy theories, so it was a bit of a shock to have him disagree.

"I know who she and her family are," Batman responded sharply.

"What?"

"You  _do_?"

"How do you know?"

"Where are they from?"

"Who is she  _really_?"

"If we didn't find her on either the civilians or supers database, how could you?"

Ironically, it was the longest and final question delivered by their resident speedster that the caped crusader answered.

"I used my own resources," was all he would say, but for the hero who asked the question, it explained everything.

"So what kind of person is she?" Superman inquired curiously, mind more at ease now that Batman supported the validity of the girl in their care.

"A normal young woman with a tragic history," was the curt answer.

" _Young woman_?" Wonder Woman ventured, lifting one eyebrow in question. "How old is she, exactly?"

"She couldn't be any older than fifteen," Superman inserted with furrowed brows.

"Twenty-one," Batman replied shortly, irritated by the interruption.

"What!" Hawkgirl, Flash and Green Lantern all burst at once, jaws falling open slightly.

Superman blinked owlishly. "You have to be joking."

"I'm not," Batman snapped. "She was born in 1992 on August 10."

"Okay, then," Flash was the first to recover.

"That explains why she was talking about classes on a Saturday," Superman sighed in some relief. "She must be in college."

"This still doesn't explain how she knew this was the watchtower on first sight," Green Lantern argued suddenly, the next to recover in the group. "And how did she know who J'onn was? I don't remember any of us actually saying his name in the med bay, so don't try and pull  _that_  on me again."

Batman became suddenly uncomfortable as he explained, "That's where it gets complicated."

"What do you mean?" Wonder Woman asked, catching his slight fidgeting.

"Meara Nolan is from an alternate universe, so to speak."

"It  _is_ like the Justice Lords, then," Hawkgirl clarified in surprise.

"No, it isn't," Batman countered with forced patience. "The Justice Lords were from a different  _timeline._  It was essentially the same people, but the events they experienced were changed. Meara is from a different  _reality_. Her world is – or  _was_ – totally unlike ours in many ways."

"In  _what_ ways?" Green lantern asked, echoing everyone's lingering confusion.

"There are no superheroes in her world," he explained plainly.

"No…" Flash trailed off in disbelief, staring at Batman along with everyone else.

"How do they manage?" Hawkgirl recovered. "With meta-humans, aliens, robotically altered villains…"

"None of those things exist either."

Silence descended like an overbearingly hot blanket on the assembled group.

"What else is different?" J'onn asked in spite of the disquiet.

"Technology did not reach nearly the level of sophistication that ours has," Batman responded. "Other than that, I don't know. That was all I was able to confirm from the views I was given, aside from Meara's family and history."

"You went to Zatanna, didn't you?" Superman asked curiously.

Batman just glared at him for revealing his source.

"Then  _how does she know about us_?" Green Lantern loudly and irritably repeated, gritting his teeth with a fierce expression and narrowed eyes.

"You know GL, I think you're turning into Bats," Flash remarked thoughtlessly, earning himself two particularly frightening glares. "…Erm …Sorry?"

"Well?" Lantern pressed after a minute.

"We were a cartoon show," Batman replied grimly.

"Huh?" was Hawkgirl's eloquent response.

"In Meara's reality, we were just fictional characters," he went on. "She watched a cartoon show called 'Justice League' when she was in high school. And she saw a variety of other media about us as well."

"So she knows all about… everything?" Superman's voice edged up a notch, nervousness setting in anew. "About each of us?"

"Everything," Batman confirmed with a grave expression.

"Where that does leave us, then?" Wonder Woman pondered. Not having a real secret identity, she was not nearly as worried as the others were, although she could understand their trouble. Particularly from Batman's standpoint.

"I'm going to find her a safe place to live," Batman answered, returning to his stoic persona instantly. "She's in enormous danger if anyone knows about her background. As will we be."

"Who are you going to put her with?" J'onn inquired, frowning thoughtfully.

"Someone who'll be able to handle her past," was the cryptic answer.

"You still haven't explained that, by the way," Green Lantern spoke up, startling the others slightly. He had been silent for a while. His face was still edgy, but not nearly as heated as it had been before.

"And I'm not  _going_   _to_!" was Batman's especially harsh response as he swooped out of the room and into the adjoining one to speak with the girl, who had woken again at the league's earlier synchronized shout.

"Meara," he spoke less harshly, albeit still sternly.

"Batman," she replied, nodding at him tentatively. He was definitely far more imposing than any cartoon could show. The movies were pretty spot on about his chilling appearance. At an average height of five feet and six inches tall, Meara felt minuscule in comparison. No wonder criminals feared the Batman so greatly.

"You know," he said plainly.

"I do," Meara answered, biting her lip when she tried to discern any emotion in his half-covered face. She couldn't. "I'd never tell."

"I believe you," he remained simple in his replies.

"What are you going to do about me?" she asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" his voice seemed a touch gentler than before, though not much.

"Well, I'm a liability, aren't I? You probably want to ship me off with plastic surgery and a whole new life story to some backwater country so I won't get tracked down and interrogated into somehow revealing your deepest, darkest secrets. Right?"

Hard though it was to tell, when Meara glanced up at him, she could have sworn the corners of his lip curled up for all of a split-second.

"I'd actually prefer to keep you under my supervision," Batman explained. "For your own safety, as well as ours."

"So I'm going to be another… orphan?"

"Weren't you already?"

Bowing her head, Meara nodded.

"It's the best way," Batman finalized the matter.

"When do I go?" she asked, still looking down at her pale hands lying on the white sheets.

"Tonight. Thirty minutes."

"Um… I don't have any…" Meara started to say, then flushed slightly in embarrassment as she looked over at her decimated yet neatly folded clothing lying on a nearby table.

"Better make it an hour," Batman responded after a pause, reaching over to grasp the offending clothing. "I'll return shortly."

Forty minutes on, he came back to the med bay with a black track suit with a double white stripe that was a little too long on Meara, and a pair of short, fleece-lined boots to match. On the trek to the hangar, she wondered who the items belonged to, but shook the thought off. It didn't really matter in the long run.

Indeed, the owner of her borrowed clothing slipped completely from her mind when they reached their destination.

"Do you have anything for nausea?" Meara asked weakly while staring at the Batwing with immense discomfort.

“Are you always this queasy?” Batman asked.

"It depends," Meara replied with a half shrug. "I get car sick sometimes. And I’m not very good with heights and rollercoasters. I have a feeling riding through space might feel like a mix of all three."

Batman hesitated all of three seconds before saying firmly, "Come with me."

They entered the commissary a couple minutes later, where Batman poured her a small cup of water and reached into his utility belt to offer up a small green tablet. Meara gladly gulped it down.

"It won't work for fifteen minutes yet," the caped crusader explained, gesturing for her to take a seat by the window. To Meara's surprise, he joined her.

"Thank you," she said after several moments of awkward silence. "I usually say it sooner, but…"

"You're welcome," Batman replied, not bothering to respond to the latter half of her statement.

The rest of their wait commenced in a silence only slightly less awkward than the first, until finally he stood from the table and gestured for her to follow.

The inside of the batwing was strange, yet fascinating. For most of her younger years, Meara had grown up idolizing comic book characters like Batman and the Justice League. Now she was inside the real Batwing with Batman himself and didn't quite know what to do with herself. But it seemed putting on her seat belt would be a good start, so she tried to do so.

Unfortunately, the arrangement was a bit cumbersome and complicated, and she hardly knew where to put which parts of the belt.

"Um… I don't know how—" she started to say, but black-gloved hands suddenly appeared halfway through her sentence and rapidly rigged the belt before disappearing again. As the cockpit closed over them, she was able to mutter, "…Thanks."

Batman grunted from the front of the aircraft and jumpstarted the engine. The moment the thing began moving, Meara felt very glad she had taken that little green tablet.

For the entire ride, the young woman closed her eyes against the constant stress running through her body. She had been right. The ride was just like carsickness, vertigo, and a rollercoaster all at once. Not a good combination; she felt dizzy most of the way there.

Vaguely in the background of her calming mental mantra, Meara heard Batman talking to someone, but couldn't concentrate enough to know who or why. Only once they finally landed – smoothly, Meara gratefully noticed – and the cockpit opened, did she find out.

"Welcome back, Master Wayne," came a welcoming voice from nearby, the accent unmistakable. "I was able to prepare a room for your guest to sleep in, sir, as you asked over the communicator."

"Thank you, Alfred," Batman responded, reaching over to undo Meara's belt apparatus for her. When she did not move or react, he lifted her straight out of the Batwing, carrying her down to the ground and across the room to a cushioned seat. Still a little dizzy, she didn't dare open her eyes.

"Breathe deeply, Miss," Alfred instructed her calmly. "The dizziness will go away quite soon."

"How did you know?" Meara asked through a heavy mouthful of glorious oxygen, something she had been rather short of since entering the confines of Batman's aircraft.

"Experience, Miss. Experience," he chuckled. His humor calmed her more than his instructions had, finally getting her to open her eyes to the world.

Standing a few feet away, Alfred Pennyworth looked dressed for a full day of work, rather than a man having just been awoken from what was probably a good night's sleep. Or perhaps that was a rather fanciful idea, considering what his surrogate son did for a night job.

Speaking of which, Batman had disappeared into thin air. When Alfred noticed her looking around curiously for her host, he chuckled more loudly this time.

"Don't worry, miss," he said reassuringly. "He's still there."

"Oh," she mumbled, cheeks turning pink.

"Dizziness gone?"

"I think so," Meara nodded, now allowing her curiosity to wander around the bat cave. It was slightly creepy, particularly the bats she knew were hanging high above, but at least it was safe.

"Do you feel up to standing on your own feet, then?" Alfred smiled, offering a hand up. Taking it, Meara was surprised by how strong his grip was.

At that moment Bruce Wayne, not the Batman, entered the room in a long-sleeved black t-shirt and track pants not dissimilar to her own. They seemed like a stock creation.

"I see you are putting Miss Barbara's old workout clothes to use, sir," Alfred commented, throwing a more careful glance down at Meara's outfit than he had at first.

"She won't mind," Bruce said wryly. "She hates the stripes."

"I sort of like them," Meara admitted quietly, feeling silly.

"Well, then I'll have some made in your size," he informed her. "We can talk about that tomorrow, though. You should get some sleep."

"I feel like I already slept forever," she sighed. "Do I have to?"

"Your body is still recovering," he firmly responded. "You need rest."

"All right," Meara mumbled, following both men up the staircase to the manor itself. It was exciting, she had to admit to herself, coming up through the grandfather clock. Secret entrances were always fascinating.

"Which room did you prepare, Alfred?" Bruce asked as he waited for the clock to close completely.

"The Aerius Room, sir," the butler answered. "I thought it would be soothing after the events of the day."

"A good choice," Bruce smiled slightly at the man.

While the clock fully returned to its position, Meara glanced around at her opulent surroundings. Just as in the Dark Knight films, the central staircase led from the main entrance hall and up to the second floor landing – the one upon which the three of them stood, in fact. Two separate staircases on either side of the main steps led up to a third floor. Elegant statues and decorative items dotted the landing and wide staircases.

Alfred and Bruce began to move, startling Meara into following them up the staircase on the three-o’clock side of the grandfather clock.

"Goodnight to you both, then," Bruce remarked to them at the third floor landing.

"Goodnight, Master Wayne," Alfred intoned, Meara nodding along. With that, Bruce headed to the right and Alfred led his new charge to the left.

"Might I ask your name now, Miss?"

The young woman blinked in surprise and glanced back down the hall as Bruce disappeared into his room. "He didn't tell you?"

"I'm afraid not," Alfred sighed. Some exasperation laced his words. "As you have probably realized, the Batman is not a particularly verbose creature under normal circumstances. The briefest of explanations were given as to a guest in the manor who knew the truth and had been in a bit of trouble. Other than what I heard from the two of you in the cave just now, I am quite at a loss."

"My name is Meara Nolan," she replied. "Green Lantern and Batman saved me from Devil Ray this morning and I had to go up to the watchtower. I spent most of the day unconscious, though."

"Ah, the usual way Master Wayne seems to meet his houseguests," Alfred commented sarcastically. Meara muffled a small laugh. "I do hope your injuries have not been aggravated by the jaunt in the Batwing?"

"I didn't really have any injuries to speak of," Meara answered. "Devil Ray gave me some toxin and it did create these strange marks all over me, but Batman's antidote healed them while I was out of it."

"Which toxin was it this time?" the butler inquired with resentment of the unfortunate things that littered Gotham.

"I don't know. I didn't really think to ask, considering it was already healed."

"Well, we can all discuss the situation tomorrow," Alfred left it at that. "Ah, here is your room, Miss Nolan."

The elegantly carved door opened silently beneath his fingers, revealing a room that reminded Meara of a seaside retreat. The enormous bed was covered with pale blue sheets and covers and innumerable pillows, topped off with a simple white headboard, and surrounded by thin white sheers held up by a track on the ceiling; there were no bedposts. The walls were painted a sandy color, similar to the warm sandstone floor. The windows – beautiful, glorious,  _gigantic_  windows – were draped with cool blue sheers and an overlying curtain to match the floor. All the furniture was white like the headboard, all simple and plain, yet somehow expensive-looking. Meara felt instantly comfortable.

"This is beautiful," she told Alfred quietly, smiling slightly at her surroundings.

"Master Wayne's mother enjoyed the seaside very much," Alfred explained softly. "She wanted at least one room in the manor to feel like a weekend away. So Master Thomas gave her four such rooms, all overlooking different parts of the estate."

Meara laughed lightly at the tale, imagining what it must have been like to live in this house before the tragedy struck. It must have been a beautiful life.

"I'll leave you to your rest," said Alfred after a moment of quiet. "I'm afraid you only have another track suit to change into in the morning, but that will all turn around very soon."

"Thank you, Alfred," Meara smiled at him, "Good night."

"Good night, Miss Nolan," he returned her smile before heading to the door, leaving only a soft click in his wake.

Meara gratefully climbed onto the huge bed and curled up under the covers. Her body was surprisingly stiff and regardless how long she had already rested that day, it was a relief to stretch out on the soft, cool sheets and let sleep overwhelm her tired senses at last.

Daylight peeked into the Aerius Room the following morning with subdued rays of sunshine, just enough to wake its slumbering occupant to a comfortable bed and a mercifully relaxed body. The previous day seemed little more than a bad dream, although the young woman remembered it very clearly. Being in the middle of things was almost always worse than thinking back on them.

Just when Meara easily stretched out, lifting her hands high above her messy head of hair and yawning widely, a sort of battle cry startled her half out of her mind, followed by something large landing almost completely on top of her. Meara yelped in shock and curled up under the covers, away from the form she had yet to see. Meara tried very hard to think through the possibilities.

She was in Bruce Wayne's house. Protected by the Batman himself.

What in the world could get to her there?

"Bruce wants you downstairs!" a young-sounding voice called far too loudly, making Meara wince, although it did explain her predicament.

How could she have forgotten about Batman's sidekick? And based on Bruce's apparent age, it was not Richard Grayson who had woken her. Somehow, she had a feeling the first Robin wouldn't have done this to a strange visitor in their home.

Feeling especially irritable that Tim Drake was such a little... well, a donkey… Meara decided to at least try and get him back for it. Even as Bruce's annoyed voice sounded from the doorway, Meara peeked up at her attacker, judging his position, and suddenly leapt up from her place in a familiar move and slammed into him from behind.

Tim yelped loudly as the both of them fell towards the side of the bed, but only Tim actually slipped over the edge, falling hard on his backside. Pulling up onto her knees in the middle of the mattress, Meara crossed her arms and looked coolly down at her would-be 'assailant,' who stared up at her in amazement. Bruce snorted in the doorway.

"That's why you should never let your guard down," he reproached the boy, who looked to be around his early teens and was still staring. Meara shot him an annoyed look.

"Master Drake!" Alfred reprimanded the teen with a heated expression, having just arrived in the doorway. "Come out of there at once!"

Tim scurried to his feet as quickly as he could, ducking out of the room as Alfred tried to smack his head with a folded newspaper. They could hear Alfred scolding him all the way down the hall.

"Manners are completely lost on you. Bursting in on a lady like that! If you ever do that again I'll give you dish-washing duty for the next month!"

"Aw, Alfred, it was just a joke," Tim tried in a mock whine.

" _And_  laundry!"

"Okay, okay!" the boy scrambled to agree before getting loaded with chores.

Bruce snorted a second time, shaking his head as he turned back to Meara. "Sorry about that. Tim's thirteen. Wild as they come. I didn't realize he'd heard me talking with Alfred about you until he ran out of the kitchen."

"I can handle it," Meara rolled her eyes.

"I'd say you can," he smirked subtly. "Nice move."

"Element of surprise," she retorted, slipping off the bed and pushing her hair back a touch more neatly. "My brother used to do things like that all the time, so I have some ideas how to react."

Bruce nodded carefully. According to what he had seen with Zatanna, he was surprised the young woman could be so vocal about her brother. Then again, he had only seen the tragedy – not Meara's recovery process – in Zatanna's crystal. Repressing a shiver, he admitted to himself he was somewhat glad of that fact. He knew firsthand that later effects could be a dozen times worse than the initial shock.

"I'm going to get ready," Meara announced abruptly, as if reading his mind. "Where do I go after I'm done?"

"Just call for me at the bottom of the staircase," he shrugged neatly. "I'll lead you from there. We need to talk more than anything, so Alfred can show you the house later."

Meara was only too happy to clean up and change clothes again after the ordeal she'd experienced the day before, although she could admit to wishing for less standardized clothing. She liked the track suit, just as she had said in the wee hours; more as a lounge outfit than a daywear ensemble, however. But then she should be grateful to have clothes at all. She had nothing of her own in the current reality – was  _that_  going to take some getting used to – and doubted she would for a very long time.

Shaking herself, Meara finished pulling on a fresh pair of fleece-lined black boots that matched the ones she had worn the night before, then made her way out into the hall and down the enormous grand staircase. She didn't even have to call for her host, as he was already standing at the bottom, waiting for her.

The curiosity must have shown on her features, because Bruce suddenly said, "Alfred reminded me that you might be uncertain what to call me when you made it down here."

Meara thought it over for a second and realized the butler was quite right. If she had gotten to the bottom of the stairs, she would have floundered over what to call her host. Several possibilities came to mind, but she still wasn't sure.

"Smart man, that Alfred," the young woman commented dryly, following a smirking Bruce across the foyer. The billionaire looked much less broad in his gigantic home than he did in the bat suit, she noted absently, a little more interested at that moment in the beautiful and often old world décor than the person she trusted to help her out in this world.

After entering the extravagant dining room, she finally spoke again with some amusement, "So what  _do_ I call you?"

"Hm… I don't know," he responded in mock thought, tilting his head with false concentration. "What possibilities were you considering on the stairs back there?"

"Of course you would have deduced that," Meara rolled her eyes.

"Of course," was all Bruce said, somewhat annoyingly smug.

"Before I answer, is um… 'black speech'… permitted as of this moment?"

Bruce halted halfway across the dining room to face his new charge with bald-faced amusement glimmering in his sharp blue eyes. "The Lord of the Rings, Meara? Really?"

"If you don't like it, you know what you can do with it," the young woman in question retorted quietly, arms crossed in front of her. "And you know what I'm talking about."

"At this very moment, go ahead," he nodded once. "The only ones here are the ones who know."

"Well, then," Meara picked up easily, "I considered Batman, Mr _._ Wayne, Bruce, and  _Hey_ , _you!_ "

Bruce snorted at the last, turning to walk towards the opposite doorway again.

"Oh, and I also thought of this one name," Meara continued a touch more humorously as she followed, feeling much more comfortable with this sarcastic, human side of the Batman and Bruce Wayne dual persona. "It's what a certain speedster calls you."

"Call me that and I'll have Alfred put you on a  _year's_  worth of laundry and dishes," Bruce threatened with mild traces of the Batman in his voice. For some crazy reason, Meara wasn't much intimidated. Admittedly, it was probably the lack of a terrifying black bat suit.

"All right," she pleasantly agreed. "I won't call you _Bats_ , then."

Bruce jolted to a stop just before the door, inadvertently allowing Meara to walk ahead of him into the kitchen amidst two bursts of surprised laughter. One proved to be Tim – who faced the doorway – leaning over the kitchen's vaguely smaller dining table in a now-silent laugh that shook his shoulders.

The other – slightly lighter – laugh had come from a young man directly opposite of Tim's seat; this one looked a lot like Bruce in some ways, but younger and more cheerful in appearance. Meara felt she would have to be stupid to not know Dick Grayson.

"Goading Master Wayne already, Miss Nolan?" Alfred commented dryly as he emerged from what looked to be a pantry.

"Don't mind me," Meara shrugged. "I'm just a mad civilian."

"I should keep my word for the year," Bruce half-growled as he stalked into the kitchen, though he didn't seem as peeved as Meara thought he would have been.

"You never said I couldn't  _reference_  the name," she explained a bit cheekily, sitting in the seat on Tim's left that Alfred had pulled out for her.

"She didn't actually  _call_   _you_  Bats," Dick inserted wryly. Bruce full-out glared at his adoptive son, who only chuckled and went back to his breakfast.

"Yes," Meara agreed casually with the eldest of the two young men, ignoring Bruce's continued foul expression as he sat in the chair on Dick's right – incidentally, right across from Meara. She wondered briefly if that was intentional. "Thanks for giving me another loophole."

"No problem," Dick shrugged, grinning slightly. "I'm good with loopholes."

"I'm probably going to need your help a lot then," Meara responded with a slight smile.

"What would you like for breakfast, Miss Nolan?" Alfred wondered as he brought a plate of healthy options to Bruce, who nodded his thanks.

"Well, I like a lot of things…" Undecided, she just shrugged.

"Best come over and choose then, Miss Nolan," the butler cheerfully informed her. "We have plentiful options."

Smiling a little, the young woman rose and followed him, picking out a large variety of fruits to fill most of her breakfast, along with a plain bagel, cream cheese, and a few pieces of cheddar. Upon Alfred's suggestion, Meara accepted the addition of two scrambled eggs.

"Just what are you doing, Miss Nolan?" Alfred scolded her as she reached for a knife from the carving block. She was only going to slice the cantaloupe and apple she had picked out, but paused uncertainly at his tone.

Blinking, she responded simply, "Cutting up the fruit… And my bagel, now that I think about it."

"And since when has that kind of work been  _your_  job?" he rebuked her, hands on his hips.

Pursing her lips at the question, Meara answered honestly and confusedly, "Since I was ten."

The playfulness in Alfred's eyes seemed to dull. Tim and Dick glanced over momentarily, but an almost inconspicuous gesture from Bruce made them look away again.

"I see," Alfred remarked with careful casualness, hands dropping from his hips. "Well, do you mind very much if I feel offended by your mistrust in my slicing abilities?"

Meara's lip twitched. "Not really, I suppose. But I am used to doing things for myself, you know."

"So is  _that_  one," the butler remarked dryly, jerking his head towards Bruce. "But you don't see him cutting up his own breakfast, do you?"

"Yes, but you've always worked for him," Meara pointed out logically. "He's used to having a butler. The only thing I'm used to having is a broken dishwasher and a plugged up sink."

Alfred snorted a quiet laugh, shook his head, and took her plate away to cut and cook as needed. Sighing with resignation, the young woman took to her seat again.

"You have to understand Alfred," Bruce explained as though he did not notice the underlying tension at the table. Indeed, Meara figured he purposely ignored it. "If someone in this house is eating a meal, it's a part of his position to serve them entirely. He's been doing it for years and, strangely enough, he likes what he does."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it," Meara sighed lightly.

"I was born into it and I'm still not used to it," Bruce quipped, flashing a smirk.

"Why I'm forced to serve the most stubbornly independent people on the planet is beyond me," Alfred muttered just loud enough to be heard, chopping furiously at the fruit with crisp efficiency. Meara smothered a tiny laugh and turned back to her seat so as to avoid a reproving stare from the elder man. Within a minute, he was back at her side with the most nicely sliced and diced breakfast plate she'd ever seen aside from a TV show.

"Okay, maybe I  _could_  get used to that," Meara grinned slightly up at Alfred.

Rolling gray eyes to heaven and back, the butler moved away and left the four of them to finish breakfast at their leisure. Tim got out of his seat and rushed through the door of the kitchen before Meara was even half done with her own meal. Dick, too, made his way out in a hurry, although a more dignified one.

"Thank you for breakfast, Alfred," Meara told the elder man when he reappeared to collect the plates left behind.

"My pleasure and duty, Miss Nolan," he replied with a slight smile. "Now, I believe you two had better start your conversation. There must be a great deal to discuss before the event this afternoon."

"That there is," Bruce agreed, rising from his seat and waving Meara over. "We'll talk in the library or the lounge. Which do you prefer?"

"Library," was Meara's instant response, rousing a sheepish expression from the young woman as she made her way around the table. "I love being around books."

"All right, the library," Bruce pursed his lips amusedly and led the way into the elegant room in question. The grand, warm-colored space was filled to the heavens with books upon books, a long ladder on each wall to reach the higher shelves. The dark wood was at once opulent and cozy for its rich hues and solid presence. Bruce led Meara past a small seating area near the main door and over to a desk hidden away in one corner of the room.

Taking a seat in one of the firm-yet-comfortable brown suede armchairs, Meara felt as though she were meeting with the dean to battle him on her consistent tendency to over-schedule and work herself harder than the college felt necessary to complete degree requirements.

"Memories?" Bruce wondered with a raised brow as he pulled out an all-too-thick folder and a notepad.

"Just college," Meara shook her head to clear the cobwebs away. "My dean's office was sort of similar to this room. All dark wood and warm colors."

"Sounds welcoming to the new recruits," commented Bruce with dry approval.

"He wasn't exactly welcoming, per se," Meara remarked wryly, "but you could tell he cared about his students' successes. That's the most important thing, anyway."

"At least there's that," he agreed, turning attention to more crucial matters. "Now, why don't you tell me all you know about this world? About me?"

"I wouldn't say I could write your biography or anything," Meara frowned. "I just know enough to be bothersome, not all-consuming."

"Just tell me what you know," Bruce shrugged and leaned back in his custom leather office chair. "I'm curious."

"Well, if you insist…" Meara began, biting her lip. "I… I know what happened when you were eight. The shooting and how it influenced you to become Batman in time. You trained under Ra's al Ghul for a time and... I think you were almost inducted into the League of Shadows, until you realized they were after destruction rather than justice?"

"True," was all Bruce said, so quietly it was practically to himself.

Seeing he did not intend to continue, Meara pressed on, "You pretend to be the playboy billionaire as a means of subterfuge for your real work as Batman. Jim Gordon trusts you, although I don't think he knows who you really are… His daughter, Barbara, is Batgirl and… well… I think she and Dick are close aren't they?"

Bruce smirked blatantly. "If you want to call dancing around each other with cow eyes 'close,' then I suppose they are."

Meara laughed slightly at that. "Yes, well what about your on-off thing with Selina Kyle, also known as Catwoman, who happens to be a jewel thief?"

"That doesn't count," Bruce countered easily. "Our tension was because Selina sidelines the law in favor of her jewel hunts. Although there isn't any dancing now. We ended any chances between us almost three years ago."

"Is that because you both agreed to it?" Meara wondered. "Or because she did something you couldn't stomach?"

"I don't see a difference," was Bruce's calm answer.

"Well, in the latter case," the young woman explained, "Selina might not be on the same page as you. I mean, are you sure she understands there are no more chances to take?"

"We clearly discussed it," Bruce answered, sounding and looking annoyed.

Backing off, Meara moved on. "You took Richard Grayson in after his parents were killed during their acrobatic act. He became the first Robin, then later he became Nightwing. Although… I thought he moved to Bludhaven when he did that... I'm a little confused."

"He hasn't become 'Nightwing' yet," Bruce commented with interest, brows lifted. "He's been playing around with a different persona for a while, but hasn't found anything."

"Unfortunately," Meara continued uncomfortably, "I think he found it because the two of you had an argument and he moved to Bludhaven. Which is why I was confused. With Tim here… well I thought Dick would already have become the protector of Bludhaven."

The room went silent along with Meara, Bruce's features turned to stone in the face of this information.

"I’m sorry," Meara had to say, shrinking in her seat.

"Go on," Bruce demanded, steepling his fingers against his mouth.

"I'm not sure of the precise circumstances when you took Tim in," the young woman admitted. "I know he was a fan of the Flying Graysons and realized Dick was Robin because of his acrobatics. Tim’s mother died, then later his father was killed by Captain Boomerang. He became the new Robin some time after that. There was a young girl who joined the group act later – her name was Cassandra."

"Well, I don't know of her yet," Bruce concluded with shrug.

"She became Batgirl after…" Meara paused uncertainly, but quickly tried to cover her slip, "after an accident with Barbara, I think."

"Accident?" Bruce sat up straighter in his seat, eyes sparking keenly. "Explain."

"The Joker," admitted Meara very quietly. "I don't know if it was him personally or someone else, but Barbara was shot and paralyzed waist down. That may have been an inadvertent reason why you and Dick had your argument, but I can't say for certain… Barbara became 'Oracle' later on, refusing to be left out of helping your work. She was the information center, you could say."

"Sounds like Barbara," Bruce murmured to himself, but something dangerous lurked in the depths of his gaze. "Please, continue."

Meara tried to think of something a little less depressing, but Bruce Wayne's life was pretty much just one barrel of depression after another, no matter what one discussed. "…You had a complicated, misguided relationship with Ra's al Ghul's daughter, Talia?"

Bruce blinked a minute in silence, something awkward in his gaze, and Meara began to worry she’d overstepped a very blunt line with that one.

“I probably shouldn’t have said that,” Meara muttered uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”

“Frankly, Meara,” Bruce spoke hesitantly, seeming to push the words out with great difficulty, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Startled, Meara brought her face up to stare at that of her host. Bruce’s smooth face appeared all too honest and the young woman wondered if Talia really didn’t exist in this world. Or if she was using a fake name…

“So, Ra’s al Ghul had no daughter?” Meara contemplated with a frown, shaking her worried thoughts away.

“He had a daughter, all right,” Bruce announced, frowning more in thought than displeasure. “But her name is Nyssa, not Talia. And I’ve never had a relationship with her.”

“I’ve heard of Nyssa, too,” Meara frowned more deeply, recalling another TV show she loved a great deal. “You’ve met her?”

“No, I haven’t. While I trained with the League, Ra’s mentioned Nyssa occasionally,” Bruce tilted his head uncertainly. “Allegedly, I never met her because she was training with the same fighting masters I engaged in the years before Ra’s found me in that dirty little prison.”

“Did he come to you as Henri Ducard?” Meara wondered, growing fascinated.

“Yes, he fooled me with that moniker,” the dark knight sighed darkly, leaning back uncomfortably in his chair. Chuckling a bit in the quiet, he tacked on, "Anyway, I should hire you as my publicist.”

"Why?" Meara wondered blankly, hit with surprise by the sudden subject change.

"The kind of wording you used about this supposed relationship… it’s exactly what people in my position want to go out there," her host explained amusedly. "Misguided, star-crossed, ill-conceived… All references to something the person in question either couldn't help or didn't fully understand going into it."

"In other words, delegating blame?" the young woman decided to just go with the flow of their talk.

"You could say that," Bruce nodded and shrugged at the same time. "With me, it's not quite as important, since my public face is  _supposed_  to be a complete swine without fail. But on some occasions, it’s necessary to redefine the relationship, so that Bruce Wayne's connections are in no way traced to Batman's connections."

"I would make a terrible publicist," Meara decided with a grimace. "That sounds ridiculously complicated."

"Oh, it is," the hero agreed. "But you'll have to do something similar anyway, now that you're living here."

"Great," sighed Meara. "What exactly am I going to be for the public, anyway? I know technically you'll probably have adopted me as well, but…"

"I don't think you need to be my adopted child, actually," Bruce considered. "I was thinking more along the lines of my personal employee. Like Alfred."

"You weren't…  _serious_  about being a publicist, were you?" the young woman asked incredulously, eyes widening. "I don't know the first thing about it!"

"What were you going to college for?" he asked calmly.

"Architecture," Meara answered, voice weak.

"Well, I suppose I could give you an internship with our urban planning department," Bruce pondered the idea for a moment, brushing his chin thoughtfully. "You can still finish your degree at Gotham University, but the internship would be excellent experience and a wonderful mark on your resume. What do you think?"

"I guess so," she responded slowly, stunned. "If you really think it will work?"

"Of course," he smirked a bit. "If  _I_  set it all up."

"Show off," Meara muttered, rolling her eyes.

"That's settled then," Bruce moved on, ignoring the gesture. "So… you know all about the League. Clark, Diana, John, Wally, Shayera, and J'onn."

A little grin split Meara's face. "I didn't want to say anything if you didn't already know. Not that I doubted you did, but ah…"

"Just in case," he preempted her again, smiling slightly in spite of himself. "Yes, I figured I should save you the trouble."

"Just in case," Meara quoted back at him mockingly. "Anyway. Superman, also known as Clark Kent or Kal-El, is from the planet Krypton. His parents sent him off the planet for his survival before Krypton was destroyed, and he was found by Jonathan and Martha Kent, who live in Smallville. He has a cousin, Kara, also known as Supergirl. Clark works at the Daily Planet as a reporter and has feelings for Lois Lane. He has an ongoing feud with Lex Luthor, Darkseid, & Brainiac. And you could say he has an 'allergy' to green kryptonite, a chunk of which you carry in a protective section on your utility belt for… added security."

"Diplomatic, again," Bruce snorted quietly. "Go on."

"J'onn is from Mars," Meara continued as asked, "and he lost his wife and children to the Aliens who tried to take over Earth. He was imprisoned on military ground and Superman set him free when you were trying to fight the Alien Invaders. J'onn is telepathic, a shape-shifter, and very lonely. Wally West can run at speeds I don't even know how to describe. He's punchy, smart-alecky, and needs a kick to get moving in the right direction sometimes, but he's loyal and friendly."

"Green Lantern?" Bruce prompted.

"John Stewart is a former marine and current member of the Green Lanterns," Meara answered immediately. "He was born and raised in Detroit. He's demanding, suspicious, and downright rigid. Had a relationship with Katma Tui, also of the Green Lanterns, and has a current, um, 'interest' in Hawkgirl. Speaking of which – her name is Shayera Hol, she's from Thanagar, and she has feelings for John as well. And she's… er… a little overzealous with the mace."

Meara tried not to think of Hawkgirl's current web of lies, completely uncertain how to go about it. She felt that Hawkgirl was misinformed and blinded by an old flame. And she certainly didn't want to break up the League when Shayera was still so necessary to the team. God only knew how bad things would get if Shayera was not still close to the League during the future Invasion. She was, after all, one of the biggest reasons they defeated the Thanagarians.

"You're holding out on me," Bruce remarked blankly, giving away no expression on his face. Meara became quite nervous in the wake of that stillness and emptiness; it was far too much like the Batman side of the coin.

"How so?" Meara asked, knowing full well she could hardly fool him for long. Although if it came to that, she could outright refuse to explain.

"You didn't mention the real reason Shayera came to Earth in the first place," Bruce remarked just as blankly.

Meara broke into a light sweat. She hadn't expected that. How the man could know such things, she was afraid to find out.

"I know she has been informing the Thanagarians of Earth's potential and our secrets," Bruce continued with piercing eyes. "And I also know that she will likely regret it and turn on her homeworld to help us in the end. And I can see why you would neglect that bit of information."

"If you know everything, why ask me?" Meara smarted, but she didn't feel the remark like she usually would have.

"Because I didn't see all the details which might help me form a plan of action against this future invasion and potentially get Shayera on our side before that invasion even happens."

Meara sighed. There was no point in holding back now that Bruce knew.

"I don't know when the invasion will happen. It was a cartoon, not a documentary. All I know is that Shayera is betrothed to Hro Talak, who will lead the Thanagarian invasion force. While the Thanagarians’ claim they are using Earth to create a shield, their actual plan is to use Earth in a hyperspace bypass, which will create a way for the Thanagarians to get behind the lines of their enemies, the Gordanians. But the bypass would destroy the entire Earth. That’s the biggest reason Shayera turns away from Thanagar; she won’t stand behind the slaughter of an entire planet – a planet she’s come to care about. Hro’s second-in-command is power-hungry and doesn't like Shayera at all, so he'll do anything to prove her disloyalty if he can. You end up revealing identities when Wally doesn't want to show his true face to all of you for subterfuge. John gets captured and fights Hro at the end of it all. Shayera helps John because of her feelings. They shut down the bypass together and Hro stops the other Thanagarians from attacking further, since their mission is already failed. The League votes on Shayera's membership, but she resigns before any verdict can be delivered. She leaves as herself and doesn't come back for a long time."

"Worst reactions in the League?" Bruce inquired seriously.

"Diana ends up having a lot of bitter feelings towards Shayera because of the betrayal – more than anyone else. I'm pretty sure it has to do with being raised in a sisterhood mentality like Themyscira. Shayera's betrayal was worse than any of yours would be, because Diana viewed Shayera as a sister like her fellow Amazons had been. Especially after that whole battle with Aresia, I imagine."

Bruce nodded as though he already expected this, and moved on with surprising speed, "Tell me about Diana."

"Diana is from Themyscira," Meara explained more cautiously, acknowledging how much she wished there were something between the two heroes and recognizing the low likelihood of Bruce's acceptance in that arena. Not that a little hint was a bad idea… "She stole her costume & relative powers to help man's world. Wally got her hooked on Iced Mochas and J'onn had a pretty good bond with her after the situation with Amazo and Lex Luthor. Diana was unfairly – in my opinion – exiled after defeating Felix Faust because she allowed the male members of the League onto Themyscira. There was the kill-off-the-men scene with Aresia, as I said before, which probably hurt even more thanks to Diana's exile. During Vandal Savage's alternate time Diana had that little thing with Steve Trevor, and then unfortunately met Savage again when she spent time with Princess Audrey of Kasnia, now the Queen… And you still owe her a dance."

"Just stick to the topic," Bruce insisted coolly, lifting a challenging brow at Meara.

"Just saying," she shrugged.

"Don't tell me," the hero sighed disdainfully. "There's a fan club for that."

Meara could only blush.

Bruce rolled his eyes broadly and sat forward at the desk. "Anything else I should be forewarned of?"

"Superman will be seemingly killed by Toyman at some point. But he's only transported to a different time. He'll come back. Good thing, too, because Lobo would  _definitely_  get on your nerves. As a matter of fact, he would probably make a pacifist turn terrorist."

Bruce chuckled at that one, his memories of Lobo only reinforcing Meara's theory one-hundred percent.

"Now, I suppose, we have to go over what I know and don't know, publicly-speaking?" the young woman asked with a resigned exhale.

"The second most important part of today," Bruce nodded, some unnamed sparkle hidden very well in his eyes.

"Only the second most?" Meara wondered amazedly. "What's the first?"

"Alfred will be only too happy to show you," Bruce smirked conspiratorially.

* * *


	3. Chapter 2: Decided

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as ‘Enigma’_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
The “tick tock” of the clock in Meara’s new room is a nod to _The Dark Knight_ soundtrack.

> **Chapter 2: Decided**

Meara could hardly have imagined that shopping came under the category of 'important' alongside superhero alter-egos, but Alfred assured her quite strongly that it did.

"One's costume, Miss Nolan, is exceptionally important in waylaying any suspicion," the butler informed her as they drove back to Wayne Manor after several hours in every shop and stylist Gotham had to offer to its elite class.

In the first place, Meara didn't even understand half of the fashions she had seen. If women wanted to torture themselves, she figured they may as well use whatever was on hand in their basement rather than pay exorbitant prices for it.

In the second place, she felt awkward on their first stop, walking in an oversized black tracksuit and fuzzy slipper boots through a shop that sold Elie Saab. By contrast, the young woman had ended up leaving in a tan, two-piece pantsuit with a teal blue blouse and matching high heels, strands of hair braided around the crown of her head and the rest hanging in waves over her shoulders. Every single clerk in the place had looked askance at least once at the transformation.

Thirdly, Meara hadn't even really picked out anything on her own. Alfred had commandeered most of it, knowing what was suitable to her age and the social arena she was entering into. Unfortunately this meant she was wearing a lot of things she would never have chosen for herself otherwise. But then she had a lot more to think about now than just her fashion sense. The Bruce/Batman secret was the priority; many lives depended on its survival. The reminder of names and secrets brought a thought from earlier that day back into Meara's head with annoying insistency.

"Alfred, what  _do_  I call him?" she asked the butler frustratedly, aiming an agitated expression above the half-raised privacy window between them.

The elder gentleman laughed lightly, but genuinely. "You never did get around to that, did you? Well, Miss Nolan, I would suggest you stay casual at home, and professional-formal anywhere outside of it."

"What does that even mean, Alfred?" she wondered exasperatedly.

"In other words," he explained patiently, making the turn into the long drive of Wayne manor, "I would call him 'Bruce' when there are no visitors at the house.  'Mr. Wayne' will be the most suitable at any other time."

"Thank you," the young woman sighed in relief, slouching back into her seat a little and examining the new fashion ring on her right pinky. "It's just… odd, you know? We're strangers, yet I know him like I've lived here all the time. How do I come to terms with that? I don't want to assume I know everything and just… push my way through everyone's lives."

"You have hardly done that, Miss Nolan," Alfred comforted her as they came around the last bend to the house. "Master Wayne understands you had no choice in this situation, as do his sons. Believe me, they all know what it feels like to have no choice."

"Thank you, Alfred," Meara murmured appreciatively, feeling infinitely reassured.

"Ah, I believe we have a visitor," the butler exclaimed with supposed excitement, his face speaking to quite the opposite feeling as they pulled towards the front of the manor. "And I believe he is waiting to meet you, Miss Nolan."

"Who is it?" Meara wondered nervously, glancing around, but unable to see the person clearly through the windows of a little tan car than looked kind of beaten up.

"I believe it is Mr. Kent," Alfred sighed slightly. "Master Wayne will be most unhappy."

"Don't you mean murderous?" Meara muttered with a wince, reaching preemptively for her new Prada clutch with careful fingers. Looking out again, she now recognized Superman as his 'other self' in a tan suit not dissimilar to her own as he stood from his vehicle.

Stifling a laugh with a rather unproductive little cough, Alfred finally rolled to smooth stop and came around to open Meara's door.

"Good morning, Mr. Kent," Alfred sighed in a mixture of exasperated amusement and resigned acceptance while Meara stood from the vehicle. "Master Wayne was not expecting you."

"I know, Alfred," Clark puffed a little self-conscious laugh, reaching up to adjust his glasses uncertainly. "But I knew I was the only one who could see how things were."

A covert glance in Meara's direction cleared up exactly what things he was talking about.

"I'm doing fine, Mr. Kent," the young woman answered for herself, feeling a smidgen of glee that she could start talking in code, so to speak. "Mr. Wayne has been treating me very well after my illness."

"Glad to hear it," Clark grinned a little, having no trouble recognizing her bit of fun. "Not that I expected anything less from such a charitable man as Bruce Wayne."

"Why don't you show Mr. Kent inside, Miss Nolan?" Alfred suggested amusedly. His expression seemed to say she was being a bit silly, but that he didn't really mind. "I have no doubt Mr. Wayne is anxious to speak to him."

"If I must," Meara muttered awkwardly, but quickly moved forward. "Thank you, Alfred, for everything today."

"You are quite welcome, Miss Nolan," the butler informed her with a quick, but genuine smile. "Would you like me to pack away your purchases, or would you prefer to do that yourself?"

Seeing by his face that Alfred already guessed her preference and did not feel slighted by it, Meara smiled back and answered, "I'd love to do it myself. Thank you."

"Very well, Miss," he nodded understandingly and headed around to the driver's side.

"I'll probably see you very soon, Alfred," Clark promised knowingly.

"Oh, I know, sir," Alfred barely contained his chuckle as he slide into the vehicle and shut the door. Meara and Clark watched him head off towards the garage until he disappeared from sight behind the manor.

"Well, Mr. Kent," Meara sighed at last, turning to her companion with an anticipatory look. "I have a feeling the look of doom awaits you, but there's no point delaying it."

Clark laughed, waving her up the steps ahead of himself. "Don't worry too much. I know what to expect by now. And it won't be a friendly grin."

A snort escaped Meara, and out of nowhere she remembered their matching suits. "You know, I'm not quite sure how to take our matching attire."

"Is there something wrong with it?" the superhero asked, genuinely curious, and Meara laughed at his worry.

"No, of course not!" she assured him, allowing him to open the front door of the manor.

"One could disagree with that statement," came an irritated voice from behind them. Turning suddenly, Meara found Bruce Wayne himself hurrying up the steps with a scowl on his handsome face. Clark was unsurprised, clearly having heard the other man well before then, and appeared entirely unperturbed by Bruce's attitude.

"So sorry," Meara retorted sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "I wouldn't have spent your millions on it if I'd known how you felt about tan suits. Nice to have met you, Mr. Kent. Have a better afternoon after you leave  _here_."

With that said, Meara continued through the open door of the manor and started up the stairs to the Aerius room, ignoring her host's snorted response, "I'm starting to think I should have left  _her_  at the Watchtower."

Le _aving Clark and Bruce at the entrance of Wayne Manor in opposing states of amusement, Meara headed up to the Aerius Room and slipped off her heels with relief. She decided to wait for Alfred with the intention of putting away all of the purchases from her shopping trip._

_Meara sat waiting, not paying attention to the time until the clock struck the next hour. Frowning, the young woman wondered why Alfred hadn't come yet. It also occurred to Meara rather suddenly that she had no idea where to put any of her purchases in the first place. Annoyed, the young woman reluctantly pulled her heels back on and made her way out of the room, glancing around the enormous halls for the elusive butler. Not daring to look in any of the other rooms or extended hallways, Meara trudged down the massive staircase in the hopes of finding the older gentleman._

_In the formal dining room, the brunette inadvertently became witness to a heated discussion between Bruce and Clark, both of whom instantly stopped talking as she stepped inside. Bruce wasn't happy at all – that much was clear – and even Clark looked rather irritated. Whatever was going on, Meara prayed it wasn't about her._

" _Excuse me," she hurriedly interrupted, biting her lip nervously. "I was looking for Alfred. It's been almost an hour since we got back, but he never came. Plus I have no idea where to put things in my —_   ** _the_**   _— room, anyway."_

_More nervous than ever now that she had nearly called the room her own, Meara stopped talking immediately._

" _We have another room for you," Bruce responded, his agitation seeming only to heighten at the topic. "Alfred put all of the packages in there."_

_Feeling decidedly adrift with this new information, Meara inwardly wondered why she was being moved, but said nothing on that front._

" _So… where… is this room?" the young woman asked haltingly, awareness burning within her that some event between her meeting Clark Kent and the current argument had gotten Bruce to change her sleeping quarters. "Or if you can just point me to Alfred, since he would obviously know and could help me sort out the clothes and whatnot?"_

" _Right behind you, Miss Meara," Alfred kindly informed her, and she turned away from Bruce's continuing irritability to face the much kinder butler, who chanced a peeved look at the master of the house which Meara didn't entirely understand._

" _Great," the young brunette smiled tensely, already hurrying to the doorway. "Shall we go?"_

_One last strange look towards Bruce, and Alfred turned to lead Meara back upstairs. This time, the room offered to her was on the other side of the main staircase. The same side as where Bruce had disappeared the previous night._

" _Is he angry with me?" Meara abruptly asked of her silent companion as they stopped before a door nearer to the clock passageway. It didn't bother her_   ** _too_**   _much if Clark was upset with her, but if Bruce felt the same… well that was a whole other can of worms._

_Alfred turned to face the young woman with a kind smile. "Miss Meara, if you are to live comfortably in this household, you must understand one thing above all else. Bruce Wayne and Batman both have the disconcerting inability to focus their negative emotions on a single entity. With Batman, those negative emotions are loosed upon the general criminal fraternity. With Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, those same types of emotions are displayed in a single front for everyone to contend with, regardless whether they are friend, family, or otherwise."_

_When Meara just stared in response, her left eyebrow lifted in confused inquiry, Alfred sighed in amusement and leaned down to her level with a mischievous look in his light blue eyes._

" _In short, my dear girl…" he murmured conspiratorially, pausing for effect, "do_   ** _not_**   _allow the mental deficiencies of either character to get you down."_

_Meara burst into surprised laughter at the suggestion and promptly followed the butler into her new sleeping quarters._

_Hours later,_ Meara sighed loudly to the empty air and rolled onto her right side, staring vaguely at the extravagant dark wooden clock on the desk near the door.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

For a short time, the young woman had been asleep and not once had the clock intruded on her. All of a sudden, she had started awake and laid in the dark wondering what happened.

In the hours since then, the young woman had lain awake in her new bed, trying everything in her power to fall asleep again yet knowing it was next to impossible. Every time the clock made that slightly-too-loud tick tock in the background, it grated on her ears with increasing frequency and kept her from the sleep she so desired.

Well, if she were honest with herself, the trouble was not truly the clock, so much as the fact that too many thoughts and too much anxiety crowded her head after the unusual day she'd faced.

The room which Meara had been given that day wasn't much to speak of. Smaller than the Aerius Room by a surprising margin and absolutely swarming with black wood and shadowed, gloomy colors, the new space could hardly be described as comforting. Not like the library had been. Dark, heavy, and utterly morbid described the room best, frankly. Why she had been placed in it, the young woman could hardly fathom and didn't necessarily want to. But for most of the night she had unhappily wished to be in the Aerius Room again with its broad, gentle, airy atmosphere. While Meara knew she was perfectly safe with Bruce and his family, the new room was stifling, depressing,  _suffocating_ …

Snapping up in bed with a sharp inhale, Meara knew she could not stay there a minute longer. Shoving the heavy coverings away, the young woman flew to her feet and hurried over to the walk-in closet to get the nearest robe, throwing the medium gray wrap over her smoky gray pajamas with far more skittish energy than she liked.

Silently the door slid open under her fingers with just enough room to slip into the darkened hallway and close the door behind her with a tiny click. Meara tried to be curious about her safe surroundings as she moved through the hall, but all she could gather to herself was a deep awareness of each and every shadow that seemed to jump and dance in the void of her peripheral vision.

Steps quickening almost unconsciously, the brunette practically fled down the main staircase to reach the dim light visible from the top. To her misfortune, the lights were not actually  _in_  the house, but shining through the windows of the foyer and onto the floor of the entrance hall. Meara trembled as the ever-present darkness closed in a little further. For a moment she headed towards the dining room, perhaps to find a light in the kitchen beyond for those with late night cravings, but it was not to be. Clearly, the entire way to the kitchen was black as night. As much as the young woman understood Batman's nocturnal preferences, she mentally cursed his needs for seeping into the rest of the house.

"Meara?"

Jumping with a startled gasp, the brunette in question spun around to find Bruce Wayne stopped halfway down the main staircase in a long-sleeved charcoal tee shirt and black sweats, a bewildered expression on his face.

"Meara?" Bruce repeated, now hurrying down the stairs to his new charge, worried for her well-being. "Are you all right?"

"Y—," Meara found her voice only to stop when it cracked on the very first letter. Shaking her head, the young woman figured not speaking was a better idea. Looking the brown-haired youth over with great concentration, the master of the house finally relaxed and decided it was environment frightening her rather than any outside attack.

"Why don't you come with me?" he offered quietly, stretching out a hand for her to take.

Without hesitation, Meara grasped the man's much larger hand with gratitude and relief in equal measure, allowing him to lead her through the main floor and into the library. And if the young woman happened to grasp Bruce's hand with hitherto untapped strength, then so be it. The hero decided his charge deserved a little leeway after all she had endured, both before and after her arrival.

"Please, sit down," Bruce invited, gesturing towards the seating area near the door. Again, Meara did not hesitate, but immediately curled her petite frame into the comfortable cushioning while Gotham's hero took a seat perpendicular to hers, hand still clasped in the small slender grasp of his younger companion.

Assuming it would take some time for Meara to calm herself and feel safe in her own skin once more, Bruce decided to just talk. Sometimes the best help was a distraction, he knew.

"It would seem you're fitting into our nocturnal atmosphere rather well," the raven-haired man teased blithely. "Not that I think that's going to help you succeed in your new internship at Wayne Enterprises, mind you. Still, there's something to be said for consistency between all members of one household; particularly a household as dysfunctional as this one. Wouldn't you agree? …But I suppose you'll only know that once you've actually begun your internship."

Slowly, very slowly, Meara allowed the depth of Bruce's quiet, steady voice to lull her back into full awareness of herself. The panic that had crept over her dissipated as the hero talked, occasionally teasing her with a tiny bit of 'black speech' and broad, unconfirmed snippets about the League, but mostly pondering the mundane and inconsequential parts of daily life in general.

At last, Bruce seemed to have run down to a point of comfortable silence, clearly having noticed his charge's improved outlook with a concentrated eye.

"Feeling better?" he asked with a slight smile, squeezing the smaller hand which had never left his grasp.

"Thank you," Meara murmured a little awkwardly, finally pulling her hand away and trying to ignore the slight flush to her cheeks. "I don't really know what came over me. The new room was just… so…"

Uncomfortable and not wanting to disparage Bruce's family home, the young woman went silent rather than continue her thought.

"Gloomy? Depressing? Claustrophobic?" Bruce offered sardonically, a bitter expression on his well-defined face. "Yes, I agree with you. My ancestor, Jabez Wayne, built that room; he was of a very morose and gothic mindset. His lifestyle was primeval compared to the rest of the family. Rumor always was that his second wife died because he drove her to despair."

"Maybe he missed his first wife?" Meara suggested cautiously. "And I find it ironic that Jabez means sorrow."

"That certainly fits what I know of him," Bruce muttered just loud enough for the young woman to hear. "I don't know for certain about missing his first wife, but that is logical, I suppose. She did die of pneumonia rather young, leaving Jabez with a young son to care for… and he didn't remarry for another twenty-five years."

"There you have it," Meara nodded once. "He probably didn't love anyone like he loved her. Not that it makes his behavior right, but... it does give some insight."

Bruce merely nodded in agreement, allowing the room to fall silent for several minutes. When overwhelming curiosity became too much, Meara asked what had been bothering her almost the entire day.

"Why did you move me into that room?" she blurted out, albeit at a low volume.

Sighing heavily, Bruce let his head fall back against the chair with a muffled thump. "I should never have listened to Clark."

"What do you mean?" Meara prompted with some resignation mixed with caution. She had already suspected the change was related to Clark Kent's visit, but had no proof until that moment.

"Regardless what I told the League earlier," Bruce responded, audibly grinding his teeth, "Lantern still doesn't trust you. He wanted to keep you under surveillance up in the watchtower."

Meara froze, a slow creeping feeling overcoming her.

"Surveillance?"

"Incarceration, if you prefer," the dark-haired man growled in the back of his throat, his displeasure radiating in waves between them. "Superman could only get Lantern to compromise if Batman personally kept watch over you. Clark suggested a room next to mine in the mansion so he wouldn't have to lie – technically speaking – about the Batman being in some kind of proximity to you most of the night. Superman is rotten at lying under pressure, so I needed to agree or else risk Lantern knowing and trying to find you and the Batman here in Gotham. Not something I want to happen, namely because he might actually find out if he's clever enough… At any rate, I had to truly  _mean it_  for Clark to feel genuine when he faced the League, which is why I had Alfred move you. He was quite averse to the idea, as you possibly noticed earlier today. If anyone knows how that room affects the emotional stability of its occupant, it's Alfred."

"Are all the rooms in the family wing so depressing?" Meara changed the subject abruptly, willing away discomfort over Green Lantern being so hard-nosed about her.

"Unfortunately, yes," Bruce shook his head ruefully. "The one you're in now is probably the best room aside from my own, albeit barely. The master bedroom was improved upon thanks to my mother's influence."

"She had good taste," commented Meara, quickly adding, "I mean… from what I saw in the Aerius Room."

Smiling with a bittersweet tinge to his features, Bruce nodded a bit sadly. "My mother was a very sensitive soul. Extreme darkness sometimes upset her."

"Did it bother you as a child?" Meara wondered hesitantly, her mind going to the latest Batman movie series she had watched and his supposed aversion to bats as a boy.

"Yes," was Bruce's wary answer. "That was why the room you're in was lightened a little. If  _only_  a little. My mother could tell I had the same trouble as she did."

"That was your room as a boy?" Meara found herself fascinated.

"Up until I returned from Princeton, actually," Bruce snorted. "Alfred insisted on moving me to the master bedroom at that time, of course."

"That was true, then," Meara couldn't help muttering thoughtlessly.

"What was true?" Bruce spoke with slightly narrowed eyes, startling the young woman out of her thoughts.

"The fact that you moved into the master bedroom after coming home from Princeton," she answered as casually as she could make herself sound.

"Where did you see that particular tidbit?" the billionaire wondered, left brow lifted.

"The newest Batman movies I watched," Meara admitted somewhat sheepishly. It wasn't exactly comfortable knowing things Bruce Wayne might otherwise have not wished her to know, but there was no way to remedy that. "It's strange trying to reconcile all of that with the real situation. Not that I've exactly been focused on it very much. Everything has been kind of overwhelming without adding that to it. I suppose my mind is smarter than I thought it was."

"How do you square  _that_  away?" Bruce actually laughed, the light sound reverberating with surprising depth in his broad chest.

"Just an expression," Meara half-smiled sheepishly. "I don't know, it just sounded interesting. So sue me."

"I doubt I'd get anything out of you," he teased, a tiny smirk on his face.

"That is the truest thing I've heard," the young brunette shook her head amusedly. "Even before I ended up here, that would have been so."

"Ah well, it won't be true anymore after you start your internship."

"When exactly… do I have to begin that… by the way?" Meara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Such a position surely would be more work than she had ever done before.

"Not right away," Bruce shrugged lightly, obviously unfazed. "Before then, I'll help you get accustomed to the Manor and Gotham City, explain all about Wayne Enterprises, set up your transfer to the University, get you accustomed to my safeguards and security protocols… and a great deal of other things. We have a lot to do before you ever get into work at the company."

"Yes, but knowing your world," Meara interceded wryly, "it won't take near as long as I would hope."

"I'll grant you that," Bruce chuckled. "Nothing will ever really move slowly in this circle of Gotham. Especially considering my nightly activities."

Nodding her understanding, Meara fell into a semi-comfortable silence with her host and began to contemplate the ramifications of everything that was happening to her. So much would be foreign to her in the world of billionaire vigilante superheroes and it felt impossible to imagine it all working out.

"Everything has been irreparably changed, hasn't it?" Meara asked after a while, a certain mixture of resignation, sadness, and curiosity infused in her tone.

"I'm afraid it has," Bruce sighed heavily, slouching only a little in his seat. "But I will do my best to help you cope. We all will. Alfred, Dick, Tim… We understand the burdens of being thrust into this life. Whether by experience or by proxy. Never be afraid to let us know when things feel insurmountable. Even if it's only to release some steam."

"I'll try," was all Meara could promise, brows furrowed. "After a lifetime of holding things back, I'm not sure I can always remember how to vent properly."

"Now that is something I understand all too well," Bruce shook his head wearily, yet still amused. "If you're beyond words or you can't make yourself speak, let me know. I'll gladly offer you a punching bag, free of charge."

"Thanks," Meara laughed briefly, "but you might want to start by teaching me how to punch it in the first place."

"You've never thrown a punch?" Bruce asked in surprise. "I would've thought – from the way things happened…"

"Yes, I know," the young woman smiled thinly, mind running into extremely foul territory. "That was the problem, you see."

"Yes, I do see," the hero sighed deeply. "A form of reverse psychology?"

"I would assume so," Meara responded curtly. "That was his  _career_ , after all."

Bitterness seeped into the words like a stream of hot water, filling every pore with its heat and discomfort. Growing quiet in the wake of this oozing atmosphere, Bruce remained silent and still, allowing his companion time to adjust her emotions.

"So," Meara prompted with false brightness, her eyes too dark to match the lightweight tone of her voice. "When do I get the grand tour? Alfred never really got around to it. Too many fashions to unpack… Maybe I can take one tomorrow morning?"

"How does right now sound?"

Meara didn't have to answer out loud, pleasant surprise and growing interest readily apparent on her smooth young face. Touring the Wayne mansion would certainly be tiring enough, especially at almost six in the morning, the young woman figured as her host stood to offer a hand. Falling into bed out of sheer exhaustion would be a welcome reprieve from the fears and discomforts of the room Meara had been given. Silently, the young brunette slipped her fingers into the strength of Bruce's palm for the second time that night and allowed him to pull her gently to her feet.

"Can we start with the bedrooms?" she questioned hesitantly. "Considering the Aerius Room, I figured they all have names and meanings, so…"

"Of course," Bruce responded pleasantly, leading his companion to the foyer before continuing. "Your new room, you'll be unhappy to learn, was named the Caligo Room. It means darkness or gloom. Hence the morose inheritance of Jabez."

"He really went on a splurge with his depression, didn't he?" Meara frowned, scrunching up her nose with distaste.

Snorting, Bruce replied dryly, "Wait until you see the rest of the family wing."

Indeed, aside from the master bedroom and the unseen bedrooms of Dick and Tim, Meara could attest to every other room in the family wing looking like something straight out of Edgar Allen Poe.

"Is that a raven over the door?" the young woman asked with widened eyes as they left one of the last empty rooms, a space which had a particularly menacing crimson color scheme and a raven bust over the door. Bruce only laughed over her comment, leading Meara out into the hallway.

"Are you going to need a pick-me-up?" Bruce smirked down at the petite brunette.

"I don't drink," was her simple response, the young woman finally shaking away vague disbelief.

"Good policy," the billionaire complimented her with sincere acceptance. "I can't think of much that drinking will get you in life. Except a hangover… or a really bad case of selective amnesia."

A loud, unladylike snort left Meara's lips without her permission. Irritated and embarrassed in equal measure, the twenty-one-year-old spoke out, "That sound is exactly why I don't like laughing in public."

Shaking his head, Bruce quickly countered, "A person with good humor is far better to be around than someone unhappy and pessimistic. I would be bothered to see you become like my ancestor. Or like me… Don't ever be ashamed of your easy ability to laugh, no matter how it sounds on the outside."

Going silent for the few moments it took to reach the next room in their tour, Meara's face took on a look of deep concentration which Bruce was either unwilling to or incapable of interrupting. When they stood before the next doorway, the young woman finally uttered the only words she could think to say. "I'd be proud to become like you."

There was no reply from her tall host, who quietly turned the handle to a door Meara vaguely recognized.

"Hey, isn't this—?" There was no need to continue as the door swung slowly open to reveal a room substantially happier – and significantly larger, if that was even possible – than the other rooms they had viewed.

"The master bedroom," Bruce intoned with enough solemnity to clue Meara into the direction of his thoughts. Thomas and Martha Wayne were never far from their son's mind.

"It's a lovely room, actually," the brunette commented blithely, taking in the rich blues and greens which brightened the room in spite of the dark tones used. "I love the subtle metallic frame over there."

So saying, Meara mindlessly walked across the room to brush her fingers along the right edge of a grand, free-standing mirror beside the enormous closet in the far right corner. The placement of the dusty-edged mirror seemed unintentional – as though it had been shoved aside in favor of the room's more important, more useful pieces of furniture and simply never thought about again.

"This is really beautiful," Meara murmured absently, examining the close details of the frame's craftsmanship with a keen eye. "It looks like… vines? Or maybe flowers?"

"Ivy," Bruce commented from much nearer than expected, starling Meara into snapping her head towards his tall form just to the left. Wistful bitterness shrouded his strong features in shadow as he continued, "My mother believed the citizens of Gotham were like ivy; strong and determined, even when things are too difficult to comprehend… I suppose she was right. Even after all the terrible losses and hurts, people still live their lives."

"Like you," Meara remarked simply, turning back to the mirror.

"And you," added Bruce, not unkindly.

"I suppose so." The young woman shrugged indifferently as she turned towards the door, remembering quite abruptly just  _where_  she had waltzed into as though she owned it. "Ah… did I really just…?"

"You did," Bruce confirmed almost cheerfully, joining his young comrade on the way to the hall. "Don't worry, though. I'm used to strange people pushing their way through my home."

"Hey!" Meara half scoffed, half laughed, her embarrassment slipping away.

"Now to the rest of the upstairs," the hero pressed onward, waving a wide arm towards the opposite side of the upper level.

"By the way," Meara mentioned curiously, "Alfred said there were three other rooms with a theme like the Aerius, and each of them overlooks a different part of the estate."

"They do indeed," nodded Bruce. "All four rooms were originally based in the idea of a seaside getaway. My father decided to make them all quite a bit different from each other, but still kept in line with my mother's light, airy designs. She was the one who named them; Aerius and Aecor, Amnis and Aether."

"What do the names mean exactly?"

"They're latin terms," Bruce explained, opening the door of the first room down from the clock passageway to reveal a much pleasanter space than any in the family wing. Neutral tones filled the room with calm comfort. "Aerius is an adjective meaning airy, soaring, etcetera. River, flow, current, stream… they all describe Amnis. Aecor essentially means the ocean. With Aether it's a much more… subjective term, you could say. It technically refers to the atmosphere. Centuries ago, spiritual believers said it was Heaven, while those more scientific simply said it was the physical material beyond the air we breath and the sky we see."

"Both ideas could be right," Meara decided. "I'm sure, more often than not, there's a definite middle ground in most arguments."

"Life doesn't usually work that way," the master of the house answered simply.

The rest of the west wing made for a nicer, calmer exploration, many of the spaces almost exactly opposite of the east wing, with lighter, brighter colors and more comfortable atmospheres. Bruce skipped the Aerius Room entirely, only cursorily pointing it out again to inform Meara that the room overlooked the patio and the nearby woods. The Aecor Room on the opposite side and further down the hall reminded Meara very strongly of the Aerius, but ivory and sea green instead of blue and white. Its view was of the direct entrance to the front of the mansion.

"I never knew there was a south wing," the young woman said, intrigued, as she and her guide made a left turn at the end of the west wing and another turn, this time to the right, to end up in the aforementioned unknown wing of the mansion. The hallway alone proved very decadent in its design; the sculpted ceilings, elaborate moldings, carved chair rails, and pattern-printed walls quite a vast upgrade in elegance even compared to the family wing.

"This wing was the original home Jerome K. Van Derm created, actually," Bruce explained. "Of course, it wasn't nearly as grand as this when he built it. My distant grandfather, Solomon Wayne, bought the manor with his brother Zebediah and both their wives. The first steps were to aggrandize the foundational house, which took about two years due to Zebediah's ostentatious preferences. They all lived in the improved version for almost five years before Zebediah died in a train derailment. Having had no children, his wife returned to her family. Solomon decided to expand into a manor house soon after, planning for the family's legacy as Zebediah was now incapable of doing. At that point it became the Wayne Manor of modern times – with some modifications from each generation, it's true, but relatively the same mansion."

"Did Ra's al Ghul burn the mansion down?" Meara inquired tentatively.

"No. At least, not down to the ground," the billionaire offered, lifting a brow as he had often done during their tour when the young woman voiced a significantly poignant question. "Mostly the front of the main level; the dining room, the entrance hall, the lounge, and the living room took the brunt of it. I'm sure he  _planned_  for it to burn completely, but our fire defense system was advanced enough to kill the flames before they reached any higher or deeper into the manor. Mostly we had to replace a few wall supports and decorative parts of the ceiling. Of course the entire front wall on the first floor required reconstructive stonework, but Alfred was quite pleased about the results, so I never worried."

"I wondered how close the movies actually are," Meara frowned thoughtfully. "I mean, while you've described a variety of differences on the few things we discussed already, there is still a definite similarity to your life."

"Movies?" Bruce stopped dead, staring at the brunette. "As in… more than  _one_?"

"Oh, yes," was Meara's quick response, a jaunty nod accompanying the words. "A great many, actually. You and Superman are the penultimate superheroes, really. If anyone was asked to name a superhero, they would probably say Batman or Superman first. You two are the standard."

"And exactly how many movies are there of the two of us?"

"Uh… there are four Superman movies from a single series in the late seventies and the eighties," she answered, thinking of everything she had ever watched or read about pertaining to the blue boy scout. "Then there are two newer ones, neither of which I particularly enjoyed. I think there are two or three more made inbetween, but I've never actually seen them."

"And the batman?" Bruce encouraged wryly, arms crossed and body leaned against the doorjamb of the next room they were going to see.

"There are nine animated films, not all of which I've seen," Meara replied much quicker than the first time. "Then there was the sixties live version with Adam West; it featured Riddler, Penguin, Joker, and Catwoman. We won't discuss the hilariously amazing dance sequence in the bat suit… In the eighties and nineties Michael Keaton played in both  _Batman_  and  _Batman Returns_ , which weren't too bad on the whole. The first featured the Joker and the second focused on Catwoman and Penguin. Val Kilmer starred in  _Batman Forever_ ; the villains were Riddler and Two-Face, and Robin was treated like some hothead with no real brains beyond looking like a cool hero for the ladies. Then George Clooney was in  _Batman & Robin_. This, if I’m honest, was the most idiotic rendition I’ve ever seen. They turned it into a three-ring circus, really, with Mr. Freeze and Poison Ivy looking like pastries they had so much makeup and prosthetic mess on. And Batgirl was just idiotic. Plus the bat suit had nipples. Why? Just why?"

Bruce laughed out loud at the last, head thrown back and shoulders shaking briefly. Meara grinned a bit, glad to see him so carefree.

"Then there's  _The Dark Knight_  Trilogy," the young woman continued grandly, throwing out her arms widely. "And might I say, I adored all three movies, real or not. Christian Bale was the best Batman I've ever seen outside of  _Batman the Animated Series_  and  _Justice League_. The actor's voice in the JLA cartoon was fantastic. If he looked like you as well, I would have pinned him for a movie, but unfortunately he was nowhere near. But Bale looks a lot like you. Not nearly as handsome, but I think they wanted more of an angry look for the role than a straight up knock-out face. Which you do have, by the way. Oh, and of course none of them can compare to the real Batman. You're terrifying in that costume, did you know that?"

"You're more talkative than I gave you credit for," Bruce retained a highly amused expression and a decent-sized grin as he spoke.

"Give me enough of a lead, and I'll talk your ears off," Meara admitted, embarrassed, and tucked loose brown hair behind her left ear. "I was a huge fan before I ended up here. Not that I'm  _not_  still a huge fan, but it's more straight admiration and trust than outright hero worship."

Bruce's grin stretched a little awkwardly over his sheepish face, but he eventually nodded with some of the confidence of his upbringing and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," his younger companion ducked her head. "Sorry about that. I ranted at you  _about_  you."

"It's fine," he waved it off casually. "I was waiting for this kind of thing at some point. Not all in one go, I confess, but I  _think_  I'll survive."

Winking teasingly, Bruce stood straight again and opened the door behind him. Meara allowed herself a laugh, once more relaxing into the situation and enjoying the elegant rooms she viewed. She felt especially gleeful over the periwinkle and silver themed Aether Room overlooking the gardens and the forests beyond, as well as the pale aqua and gold Amnis Room which overlooked the greenhouse and the front lawns.

In comfortable silence, Bruce led Meara down to the main level again, eventually double-checking with her, "Are you tired at all? Or do you feel fine to continue?"

"I'm even more awake than I was earlier," the young woman shook her head. "I'd love to keep going."

"All right then," the tall hero acquiesced. "We'll start at the kitchen and come back, just to reacquaint you with everything before we get to the unseen sections of the manor."

The kitchen sported a walk-in freezer/fridge and a butler's pantry, each of which were a complete room unto themselves. Martha Wayne's china and silver collections, both inherited and acquired, were extensive and elegant in the extreme. Similarly, the artifacts and designs in the dining room proved vast and ornate.

Bruce offered a few tidbits about the entrance hall and its various paintings and artifacts after they exited the dining room, but since it was all reconstructed there was little of real historical interest aside from décor.

"These are from the  _Tortugas_  shipwreck of the 1620s," Bruce indicated, pointing at a similar pair of large, green vases setting on the deep window sills framing the door that led to the foyer. "They're olive jars. Remarkably well preserved, even before I had them treated."

From there they headed comfortably through the immense, winding halls on their tour, every room and nook and niche a fascinating glimpse into the Wayne family and its current heir. Finally, the two companions came up to a set of double doors made with some dark wood, far from the entrance hall and in a very dark section of the south wing. Meara shivered at the growing darkness, her fears kept at bay only by the presence of Gotham City's greatest protector. When the hero in question pushed open the set of doors only to find pitch blackness, Meara actually stepped back a couple feet.

"It's not what you're thinking," Bruce exhaled a brief laugh, reaching inside the doorway to flick a switch. For a second, nothing happened… but a flickering appeared from within and abruptly the entirety of the gigantic space beyond lit up like Broadway.

"After you, Mademoiselle," Bruce bowed teasingly, gesturing her onward with a long, muscled arm.

Smiling at this uncommonly fun and spontaneous version of Bruce Wayne, Meara gladly stepped into the blinding glow of the room. With sudden glee as she glanced around, the young woman realized the enormous place was a very grand and palatial ballroom. Elaborate, elegant, frosted, and silvery, the grand and mirrored room felt more like a glorious fairytale than part of a real home.

It took several minutes of awestruck revolving until the grandeur faded away enough that Meara could notice deeper, less wonderful aspects of it. Walking right up to a chair rail near the door, things she'd overlooked became blatantly apparent.

The frosted appearance which had so enamored the brunette at first was, in actual fact, merely layer upon layer of dust covering the true, rich coloring beneath. Reluctantly swiping away some of the thick layering, Meara gasped in surprise at the deep and beautiful blue wallpaper beneath the grime.

"Why is this place so awfully dirty?" she asked of her host, almost indignant on the room's behalf.

Chuckling at the tone of voice, Bruce stepped up beside her to glance at the lavish wall hidden beneath disuse and time. "There are a great many rooms in this place that have no practical purpose anymore, so we don't bother with them. Parties are held in the city nowadays, anyway, not here at the manor. And while Alfred may have the activity and strength of a man fifteen years younger, he is not honestly up to the task of truly cleaning this entire mansion as he would like to. Hiring a staff would be out of the question, as well, so…"

"Okay, then we do this," Meara spoke decisively, eyes catching on the tiny patch of revealed wall again. "You make sure my internship isn't a completely full-time job and I spend the other part of my day cleaning all the places Alfred can't. This ballroom for starters."

"You're not hiring in as my housekeeper," Bruce argued, shaking his head. "I can't see how you'd ever get it done. By the time you finished with this room… No, you don't need to overextend yourself or add unnecessary stress to your new life here."

"Bruce," Meara said his name for the first time, feeling odd as the single syllable rolled off her tongue, "Seeing this kind of decay, seeing a room so beautiful end up so useless… it honestly hurts me. I want to see this ballroom how it was meant to be seen, even if only for a little while. Besides, it will help me get better acquainted with the manor. The more I walk the halls and learn where things are, the safer and more comfortable I'll feel. I think we can agree I need that, after how I behaved earlier… Please?"

Rational argument seemed to be winning in the first place, but the last little word apparently tipped the scales in Meara's favor. Sighing resignedly, Bruce nodded, "Okay. I'll let you do it."

Beginning to grin at his acceptance, the young woman halted as the hero tacked on, "But only on the conditions that Alfred gets you all the best tools and supplies, you stop for meals and water, and you have some kind of communication device at all times. Cell phone, earpiece, headset… I don't care what it is. Agreed?"

Relieved at his reasonable suggestions, Meara gladly took the man's proffered hand to shake on the agreement.

"I think this is the beginning of a… profitable… friendship," Bruce quoted with a twitch of his lips, and Meara could only laugh.

* * *


	4. Chapter 3: Reasoned

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as ‘Enigma’_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
My inspiration for Dick Grayson is Steven R. McQueen. As for Tim Drake, I really liked the idea of Logan Lerman. Selina Kyle (who will not be making an appearance yet) is definitely going to be Anne Hathaway’s version from TDKR. Suffice to say, if the character showed up in TDK trilogy, that’s pretty much the version of them I’m going to use (if I use them at all).

As an update, I may or may not use some ideas from _Gotham_ on Fox. If you haven’t seen it, it’s an amazing show.

> **Chapter 3: Reasoned**

“So, this is the button I press to talk?” Meara reiterated for the third time in as many minutes, checking the indicated button on the small earpiece she currently wore.

“Yes, it is,” Dick Grayson chuckled and sighed simultaneously, grasping her twitchy hands in his to stop the awkward fidgeting.

With Bruce unexpectedly called away for a meeting at Wayne Enterprises and Alfred stuck waiting for his employer, Dick had volunteered to coach Meara in using an earpiece for her renovation work in the mansion.

Less than half a day after talking with Bruce about renovating the ballroom and elsewhere within Wayne Manor, Meara had found the supplies and materials she needed stocked up on a rolling cart at the foot of the main staircase. That very afternoon, she prepared herself to start the work as planned, until Bruce reminded her of the communication device she had promised to have on her at all times. Now there she was, everything prepared and ready to roll forward, but with her nerves in full force the project had a slow-going start.

“That is the button you press to talk,” the elder of Bruce’s sons repeated patiently. “The other one is the button to turn up the volume. I’ve turned it low to start, and when we practice with it, you can adjust it as you need to hear me properly. All right?”

“Okay,” the young woman sighed nervously, forcing her hands to remain at her denim-clad sides. “I’ve just never employed anything more than a cell phone before. I don’t want to break it or mess up its configuration or deafen myself or—”

“In the first place, you can’t break it with your own two hands,” Dick cut in quickly before Meara could find any more possible things to go wrong. “It’s made of carbon fiber. So unless you plan on using some heavy duty equipment on it…”

“No,” Meara negated, nodding her understanding.

“Good, then you’re not going to break it,” Dick concluded firmly. “As for its configuration, you couldn’t mess it up unless you hacked the main computer system in the cave. Planning on doing that anytime soon?”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” the brunette replied with a pink glow to her face. “I don’t even know how to hack a computer.”

“Great, then you can’t mess that up either,” the young man confirmed decidedly. “What else was the problem?”

“Hearing?” Meara offered weakly.

“As far as you’re hearing is concerned, I just told you I turned the volume really low. I’m smart like that,” Dick grinned winningly, bringing a small laugh out of Meara. “The adjustment is simple. One notch at a time, you can’t go more than that at once. Bruce made sure it was safe that way. Now, are you ready to practice?”

Left with no more reasons to not try, Meara just nodded and adjusted the sleeves of her cream button-up.

“Right then,” Dick nodded as well, pressing the button for his earpiece, which had long since been in place while Meara dithered anxiously. “Radio check.”

The words were almost indistinct on her own piece, so Meara pressed the volume button. “Try again.”

“Check, checking, checking account,” Dick joked into the piece again, and this time he sounded a little better, but still not quite loud enough for Meara’s liking.

“One more time,” she told him with a repressed smile, pressing that volume button once more.

“Can you hear me now?” the black-haired nineteen-year-old asked, and Meara finally felt comfortable with the volume.

“That’s good,” Meara informed him.

“Now try yours,” Dick responded, gesturing at her earpiece with his free hand.

Hesitantly, Meara pressed the button to say, “How about it?”

“Sounds good to me,” he agreed easily, hitting the volume up one notch and then pressing the power button on his earpiece. “Just talk a little bit louder. Alfred doesn’t like the volume any higher than this and his hearing probably isn’t quite the same as mine.”

“You’re right,” she said, holding back a tiny giggle. “It’s probably a lot better.”

Snorting, Dick nodded, “You know, you’re probably right. Might come with the territory, having to raise Bruce and all.”

Meara laughed lightly and took a seat on the sofa. They had moved into the elegantly decorated lounge for their coaching, something Dick felt advantageous to Meara’s nervousness.

“Well,” Dick spoke after a pause, sitting on the opposite sofa and laying his earpiece on the coffee table between them, “Bruce didn’t tell us much about you. Tim heard more than I did, but he likes to know things I don’t, so…”

“He didn’t tell you anything he heard,” Meara finished for the first Robin amusedly, a sad tilt to her mouth, “Sounds like little brothers never change.”

“Bruce mentioned your loss,” admitted Dick quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“It happened a long time ago,” Meara muttered almost silently, turning away from him.

“What about the rest of your family?” he wondered hesitantly.

“Dead or as good as,” was her blunt reply. Inhaling deeply, Meara lifted her head back up to gauge the young man’s expression as she continued, “Why?”

“I just wondered who might be looking for you right now,” Dick explained with great reluctance, an apologetic expression crossing his face.

“No one I’ll miss,” Meara murmured darkly.

Cutting off her own words abruptly, the young woman stood from her seat and stalked to the grand fireplace, turning from Dick with arms crossed.

After a while of silence, Dick eventually said in a gentle voice, “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I know how it feels to be pushed into discussing things that hurt you. I’m sorry.”

She could hear him rise from the sofa and turn to walk away, one of the earpieces sliding across the surface of the table as he did so.

Closing her eyes in an effort to assimilate patience to her thoughts and actions, Meara sighed and finally replied, “You don’t have to apologize, Dick.”

It was the first time Meara had ever used his first name, and she found it was easier than addressing Bruce had been.

“It wasn’t something to bring up casually like that,” the former acrobat negated Meara’s response, understanding and patient.

“That doesn’t mean it was out of bounds,” the brunette opposed him calmly, staring into the grate of the fireplace without really seeing it. “You were trying to get to know me. It’s just… that’s not as easy an action as it would be with most people. I’ve been closed off for most of my life, on a personal level, and as hard as that is for most people to understand…”

“It’s what you know,” Dick finished for her. “Your survival tool was to retreat into yourself.”

Meara shrugged helplessly and added, “Maybe that’s wrong, but…”

“I don’t think it’s wrong, exactly,” the first Robin put in thoughtfully. “Somewhat unhealthy, yes, but not wrong. If you didn’t protect yourself somehow, you probably wouldn’t be here now. Trust me, as unhealthy as it is, Bruce does that in spades and no matter how frustrating it is, I really believe that’s part of why he’s still with us today.”

There were no words to be had, leaving Meara at an awkward impasse while she toyed anxiously with the zipper on her cobalt blue sweatshirt.

“Why don’t you go ahead and get going on the ballroom?” suggested Dick, “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Nodding her understanding, Meara listened to the young man’s steps fade away down the hall before she moved from the fireplace and left to begin working on the ballroom, putting her earpiece in as she went.

The rich blue wallpaper she so adored was stubbornly attracted to dust, Meara soon realized. It made a bit more sense that they’d left the ballroom so unkempt, if the dust was so difficult to clean. Shaking her head tiredly, Meara just continued gently cleaning the wall; anything worth doing tended to be more challenging.

“Miss Meara?” Alfred’s voice interrupted her work some time later, and with a start Meara turned to face the butler.

“Hi, Alfred,” she smiled slightly. “Bruce back from his meeting, then?”

“Yes, we returned half-an-hour ago,” Alfred answered. “I just wanted to remind you of your supper.”

“Is it that time already?” Meara exclaimed in surprised, checking the grand clock on the far wall of the ballroom to find it nearly seven-thirty. “I didn’t know I’d been working so long.”

“Yes, you’ve done quite a bit of work on these old walls,” Alfred replied, plainly impressed. “I’d forgotten how lovely they were.”

“I love the color,” said Meara, dusting her jeans off as she rose from her kneeling position. “I’m glad I offered to fix it all up.”

“As am I, Miss Meara,” the butler responded pleasantly. “Now, why don’t you join Master Wayne and his sons for a little supper?”

“Okay, Alfred,” the young woman agreed, grabbing her discarded sweatshirt and following him through the mansion. To Meara’s surprise, they were eating in the actual dining room rather than the kitchen as she was accustomed, Bruce seated at the head while Dick and Tim had taken the seats immediately to his left.

“Something special happening tonight?” Meara asked curiously as Alfred pulled out the chair on Bruce’s immediate right and helped her into it.

“Why?” Tim questioned, expression slightly confused.

“In the few days I’ve been here, we’ve always been in the kitchen,” Meara shrugged, folding the sleeves of her cream shirt as they were before her work began. “I just wondered.”

“Alfred insisted,” Bruce explained as the butler himself passed into the kitchen. “Now that you’re cleaning the place up, he wants us to try and use more rooms on a daily basis, so there’s less work for you.”

“That’s sweet of you, Alfred,” Meara called towards the kitchen. “But I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“I always worry, Miss Meara – without fail,” the butler retorted, bringing a smile to Meara’s face.

“So how’s the ballroom getting along?” Dick asked, the earpiece he had apparently worn all afternoon sitting beside his silverware.

“It’s been fine,” the brunette replied. “Stubbornly dusty… but fine. It’ll keep, at any rate.”

“Yes, that dust seems to like our wallpaper more than flat surfaces,” Bruce agreed with a slight quirk to his lips. “Feeling overwhelmed yet?”

“Not at all,” Meara answered sincerely. “I love seeing it come together. It may be a slow process, but with architecture and interiors, it’s all worth it after you see the finished product.”

“Is that what you’re going to school for? Architecture?” Tim questioned her interestedly. “Do you use CAD a lot?”

“I prefer hand sketching, actually. In my personal experience, designing is more of a… freeform art than a mathematical equation,” Meara replied thoughtfully. “I put the design details down onto paper as I envision them in my mind, and then usually I perfect it through layer sketches and piecework calculations. These days, however, you inevitably can’t do much in the architectural realm without CAD. I imagine that’s especially true with such advanced technology. But in short, yes, I am going to school for architecture and I do use CAD a lot.”

Dick and Tim had stopped listening intently and started gawking slightly instead. Bruce chuckled beside Meara, clearing his throat in an effort to prevent slight laughter.

“You’re a nerd, too!” Tim burst in sudden joy. “Yes! No more trying to get Dick to understand what I’m talking about.”

“Hey!” Dick exclaimed indignantly, and this time Bruce let a small laugh escape him. Glaring at his unrepentant adoptive father, Dick turned and forcefully shoved Tim off his seat with a thump.

“Somehow, I doubt Dick is _that_ bad at nerdy endeavors,” Meara rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

“At least someone around here gives me credit,” Dick muttered at the tabletop, although his eyes cast themselves in Bruce’s direction once.

Luckily Alfred arrived with their supper when he did, for he stopped a rising Tim from retaliating against his surrogate brother. One steely gray eye in the young teen’s direction kept him glued to his chair even after the butler disappeared back into the kitchen.

Coughing through a little laugh at the disappointment on Tim Drake’s young face, Meara focused on the plate of smartly-portioned roasted meat and vegetables in front of her.

“Meara,” Bruce addressed the young woman after his sons had calmed themselves, “how would you like to take a driving tour of Gotham tomorrow?”

“I barely have any work done on the ballroom,” the brunette responded with a vague frown, “but then I suppose it would far more prudent to know Gotham than the true color of the ballroom, wouldn’t it?”

Chuckling, Bruce answered, “Yes, I think it would be. Especially because you’ll have to go into town sooner than you expect. If we keep waiting, you’ll be caught off guard before you can actually get to know the city you’re now living in.”

“Well, nothing like fear factor to convince me,” Meara sighed with a touch of amusement. “All right, a tour sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you,” Bruce scoffed slightly. “It’s just a fact. The more comfortable you get here at the mansion, the faster the time will go by.”

“And soon enough, my internship will arrive before I’m even ready,” Meara nodded understandingly. “Are you focusing on particular parts of the city or an overview?”

“Particular parts tomorrow,” Bruce explained. From the sound of his voice, Meara got the feeling he’d been planning this from the beginning of her arrival. “Then we’ll expand into less essential parts of the city after we’ve discussed protocols and security measures in more depth. Yesterday wasn’t exactly the most thorough talk we could have had on the subject.”

Meara nodded, prepared to let the matter dissipate, but Tim had other plans.

“How did you find out about us, anyway?” the thirteen-year-old questioned their new resident with guarded fascination.

Silence settled over the room while Meara glanced over at Bruce in surprise. “You didn’t tell them?”

“Well, I hadn’t expected it to come up so soon,” Bruce admitted quietly, but resignedly. “Would you like me to explain or…?”

“I’ll try,” Meara hesitantly agreed, turning back to the Wayne heirs with considerable nervousness. “Dick, Tim… um… I’m not from… from here. Not here as in Gotham, but… this world.”

“You’re an alien? That’s interesting!” Tim said loudly, bringing a full laugh out of his adoptive father.

Allowing a touch of a scowl in Bruce Wayne’s unfazed direction, Meara tried to explain better. “No, Tim, I’m _not_ an alien. What I mean by world is… universe. Er… _reality_. Do you know about the Justice Lords?”

“Yeah, Bruce explained about that,” Dick confirmed. “They were a different timeline from ours, but generally the same people. Are you from there?”

“No, I’m not,” Meara sighed, growing frustrated with her own lackluster explanations. “The Justice Lords were technically – eventually – independent as far as time and space are concerned, but they were also dependent upon this reality to even exist in the first place… Oh, let me put it a different way. Let’s call this reality, right here and right now, the Justice _League_ reality. The other was the Justice _Lords_ reality. These two realities stem from one connecting event, like branches off of one tree. All of the history you’ve endured in your lives, was present in the Justice Lords timeline up to a certain point. My... reality, timeline, whatever… is not dependent on this one to exist; not a branch off the tree, but the tree itself. It’s totally separate and different from your universe.”

“So, you didn’t have a Justice League in your original world,” Tim assumed smartly.

“No, we didn’t,” Meara answered easily. “No superheroes, no supervillains. All of _you_ … were in fiction. Comic books, films, tv shows, but never actually real. I don’t even know how I _got_ from one universe to a totally new one, but I did and here I am.”

“You know absolutely everything, then,” Dick was the one to assume now. “About all the League, and all of us, too…”

“Well, I don’t know for certain what actually happened and what didn’t,” Meara denied reluctantly. “There was a lot of information and a lot of changes made to the stories of your lives every time someone reinvented them over the years.”

“That makes sense, I guess,” Dick nodded slowly. “Just like movies about the Civil War or something along that line. Different movies or books can tell different tales about the same event.”

“Even genuine history books,” Alfred threw in as he settled glasses of water beside Bruce, Dick, and Tim’s place settings. At Meara’s place he hesitated briefly, two glasses left on the tray as he suggested, “Miss Meara, I thought you seemed the type of person to enjoy iced tea, but I could be wrong, of course.”

“You’re a good judge, Alfred,” Meara smiled in thanks, accepting the glass of tea with gratitude. “I like tea just about any way it can be found.”

“Then I shall endeavor to secure the occasional tea time for you, Miss Meara,” Alfred smiled and left with the last glass of water.

“I don’t really know how I’m ever going to get used to that,” the young woman sighed slightly, taking a tentative sip of her tea, which had been lightly sweetened. “Mm… Alfred certainly is wonderful, though.”

“Just don’t insult his knowledge of tea varieties,” Dick inserted his opinion wryly.

Snorting a bit, Meara shook her head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

A pause stole over the four of them, tinkering sounds from the kitchen the only noises that surrounded them for several minutes. Meara felt rather uncomfortable in the silence, not used to having such utter quiet shrouding a meal.

“You must have a lot of questions,” Tim put out there tentatively after a while. “About us, I mean.”

“Why would you say that?” Meara wondered awkwardly.

“Well, if you know so much about the different versions of our lives,” Tim explained calmly, “you had to have read or watched them, right?”

“Now I know why you’re called such a natural detective,” Meara grumbled half under her breath, making Dick snort into his glass of water. “All right, yes, I did watch and read many of them. Not all, but a lot. Especially about Ba—uh.”

“Go ahead,” Bruce nodded his understanding, a look of pleased gratitude settling in his eyes for her restraint. “It’s only the five of us.”

“Okay… especially about Batman,” Meara continued nervously. “Favorite hero since childhood, not going to lie.”

Dick and Tim laughed a little over her admission, but remained attentive as she went on to say, “I’ve already found a few things that match the movie trilogy I loved so much, and then there are things that match the animated shows and the comics… You two, for instance, aren’t present in the movie trilogy. So it’s kind of here-and-there as to how much from which source is actually credible.”

“Roll off some questions, then,” Bruce offered easily. “I don’t know about Dick and Tim, but I’m willing to confirm or deny some things you might wonder about.”

Checking the expression of Bruce’s sons, Meara felt reassured by the encouragement she saw on their faces. “Well, one thing gets me right now. It’s been bothering me ever since we talked about what I know.”

“What’s that?” the billionaire prompted her.

“Tim, you’re… Robin right now. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am,” the thirteen-year-old nodded.

“Then what are you, Dick?” Meara asked confusedly.

“That is actually a really good question,” the young man laughed quietly. “I’ve been thinking about a change, what with Tim being here, and Bruce has helped me brainstorm some ideas, but… I don’t know, nothing seems to fit. Especially in regards to the costume. All I’ve done to separate Tim and me, is to darken my colors for now and quit the cape. Just so you can actually tell us apart out on patrol.”

“Huh,” Meara responded a little emptily. “I wonder sometimes how much knowing things ahead of the game will bug me… Now it bugs me a lot. Thanks so much, Grayson.”

Dick snorted a laugh. “You’re so welcome, Nolan.”

“I don’t know what it would hurt to give him a hint,” Bruce shrugged at Meara. “Only if you’d like to, of course.”

“Well, I don’t know about hinting, exactly,” sighed Meara. “I don’t have enough information on that subject to leave a tiny hint and let it run.”

“Wait a minute,” Dick interceded abruptly. “You know what my name is going to be, don’t you?”

“I know what it _could_ become, but that’s all really,” she shrugged. “For all I know, this reality doesn’t have a N—the same future alias for you.”

“Starts with an ‘N’ then,” Dick grinned at her teasingly, making Meara scowl.

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, “Well, you _were_ able to leave a tiny hint and let it run.”

“Can’t say anything around you three without something getting deduced out of it,” Meara grumbled.

“Ah well, I’ll figure it out in my own time,” Dick sighed acceptingly and sat back in his seat. “Wait… one more question and then I’ll leave it alone. Is it bird-related?”

“Kind of, sort of?” Meara haltingly confirmed. “A word in the name is, at least. But I’m pretty sure that’s not why you used it.”

“Okay, dropping the subject as promised,” said Dick, raising hands in submission, although clearly his mind whirled over and over the little bits of information he had been given.

“Next question,” Tim prompted with some excitement.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” Meara tread very carefully, clasping hands above the tabletop, “but are you literally adopted or just metaphorically?”

“I was eleven, almost twelve, when Bruce took me in as his legal ward,” Dick answered instantly, plainly at ease with the subject. “He officially adopted me at fifteen, though.”

“I was ten,” Tim followed on his brother’s heels, albeit more subdued. “For both things, technically. Bruce just adopted me straight out when my father was killed.”

“I’m sorry, Tim, I wasn’t thinking,” Meara murmured apologetically. “Three years isn’t that long.”

“It’s okay, you couldn’t have known,” the youngest member of the Wayne household shrugged. “If it bothered me that bad, I wouldn’t have answered you at all.”

“Well, at least I know how to tell if I’m really bothering you,” the brunette sheepishly decided.

A smile crossed Tim’s face at that. “Well, come on, give us more questions. We have a lot of time tonight, don’t we, Bruce?”

“Not _that_ much, Tim,” Bruce disagreed as he glanced at the clock. Catching sight of Tim’s disappointment as he turned back, the billionaire sighed and added grudgingly, “but enough to talk for a little while longer, I suppose.”

Tim brightened considerably, his improved expression softening the severe angle of his father’s brow. Bruce Wayne had quite the soft spot for his younger son, Meara realized.

“Go ahead, Meara,” Tim told their newest resident with far subtler excitement. It was the first time he’d addressed her by her name. Not that they had much time to talk the previous day, but Meara found it noteworthy all the same.

The continued apprehension must have shown on Meara’s face, for Dick inserted his opinion kindly, “If the subject is too hard, we’ll tell you. Don’t worry about it.”

“And don’t take it personally if we get a bit testy when we do,” Bruce added more dryly.

Allowing a small laugh to escape, Meara released a pent-up breath and plowed forward. “All right then, you said it. Dick, how did you become Robin?”

“Ugh,” Dick complained, prompting Bruce to snort. “You had to ask. Can we just say I was clumsy and ended up in the cave? Does that work?”

“No,” Meara scoffed incredulously. “There’s no way I’ll ever believe an _acrobat_ was ‘clumsy’ or that you just casually nosed your way into Batman’s hideaway without some pretty sizeable effort and thought behind it.”

“See, now I don’t like you giving me all this credit,” Dick countered smartly.

“What did you do?” Meara pushed resignedly, prepared for something fairly amusing, judging by the expressions on Bruce and Tim’s faces.

“I… may have… accidentally dropped there,” Dick hedged. “Through a hole…”

“Otherwise known as a well,” Bruce added sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“That may or may not have been boarded up for a very, very good reason,” Tim tacked on in mock thought.

“Hm…” Meara hummed doubtfully, “why do I have the feeling someone had a rope for this ‘accidental’ drop?”

“Purely by chance, of course,” Dick responded with practiced calm.

“Of course,” Tim rolled his eyes not dissimilar to Bruce.

“Dick was angry over losing his parents,” Bruce explained more plainly, “and over my… lackluster support, you might say, in that first month.”

“I said it wasn’t you,” Dick immediately retorted to an obviously old, tired argument.

“So, he went exploring when I told him not to,” Bruce continued as though his elder son had not even spoken. “With a rope, a flashlight, and a hammer.”

“A hammer?” Meara repeated blankly.

“I didn’t get the hammer until I noticed the well was boarded,” Dick chimed in with a remarkably straight face, clearly trying to salvage some of his pride.

“Uh-huh,” was all Meara said to that.

“Fine,” Dick sighed frustratedly. “I used the rope to get down the well, followed the cavern through, and fell on my rear end after a fifty foot slide and a pack of crazy bats swarming the beam from my flashlight. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I didn’t even get to stand. I turned to move, when suddenly I was dragged up by my collar and pulled face to much-taller face with a slightly upset Batman. And by slightly, I mean don’t look him in the eye or you’ll be dead.”

Meara actually giggled at the image of twelve-year-old Dick Grayson hanging by his shirt collar as Batman glared him into explaining his nosy activity. “Seems like you’ve gotten over that look.”

“Not in the suit,” Dick admitted in embarrassment, to which Bruce suppressed a smile with admirable grace.

“To be fair, it’s probably kind of terrifying when he’s angry,” Meara remarked with a shrug.

“I wanted to throttle him, I admit,” Bruce sighed with wry humor. “But he talked more in that moment that he had the entire time I’d known him, which was quite a lot of progress.”

“Most of it wasn’t so nice,” Dick confessed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and definitely avoiding Bruce’s eyes.

“Water under the bridge, we said,” Bruce concluded firmly. “Needless to say, it was a matter of days before he’d convinced me to train him.”

“I had a lot harder time convincing him,” Tim commented ruefully. “Dick was my friend on that one.”

“I think you just scared Bruce,” Dick said thoughtfully. “You were a little kid and already you’d figured out our secret. He ramped up the paranoia for a while after that.”

“More than usual?” Tim asked in mock surprise, and Meara had to smother a laugh at the severe look on Bruce’s strong face.

“Not going there, Tim,” Dick remarked cautiously. “Because that face looks one shade shy of a cowl right now.”

“Next question?” Bruce pressed irritably.

“How old are you?” Meara quickly asked.

“Thirty-five,” the billionaire answered succinctly. “Dick will be twenty in December, Tim turned thirteen in March.”

“That was quick,” Meara muttered awkwardly, trying to think of many of the questions she had since arriving. “Do you know a woman named Leslie Thompkins?”

“She worked with my father at one time,” Bruce answered with little interest. “I remember her at my parents’ funeral. She tried to comfort me, but I wasn’t especially receptive, as you can imagine.”

“Considering what you went through, I can’t say I’m shocked,” Meara nodded understandingly.

“She has a clinic here in Gotham,” Bruce continued thoughtfully. “I’ve never talked with her as myself. As Batman on occasion, but not much even then.”

“What about Lucius Fox?” Meara asked next.

"My good friend, and friend of my father," Bruce smiled slightly. "Also President of Wayne Enterprises. He helped me get started as Batman, even if he didn't know it immediately."

“Through Applied Sciences?” the young woman clarified.

“Exactly,” Bruce confirmed with a single nod, “He caught on more quickly than I probably knew, but mostly he didn’t seem to know at first.”

“Did Mr. Earle go public with Wayne Enterprises?” Meara inquired curiously.

“He did,” Bruce nodded. “Of course I was the one who bought it back, but he did go public.”

“Did you disappear for seven years?” Meara had to know, constantly pulling up information from the films or the cartoon she wanted to clarify.

“Yes, I did,” Bruce answered, taking on a reminiscent tone. “After I came back from Princeton, actually. I couldn’t understand why my parents’ killer was going to be released after what he’d done. I wanted him to face justice, not trade information for freedom.”

“You went to the trial?” Meara suggested quietly, something in the billionaire’s blue eyes telling her there was much more than that to the story. She was beginning to think the film trilogy was truer than she ever realized.

Staring at the young woman with intent concentration for a long moment, Bruce finally tilted his head in interest and stated matter-of-factly, “You know what I planned to do.”

“I’m fairly certain,” the brunette replied with a little shrug.

“A friend made me see how… unworthy…” Bruce decided to say, “that action would be of my parents. After all they had done in an attempt to restore the lives of people like Joe Chill, my choice would have disrespected their memory.”

“Didn’t someone in the crowd…” Meara hinted mildly, alluding to the other gun that had waited in the crowd as Bruce’s had done.

“He was shot leaving the courtroom,” sighed Bruce, scraping through his dark hair. “Carmine Falcone probably sent them. I’m sure he would have wanted any connection between himself and my parents’ murder to go underground.”

“Did he really send Chill, then?” Meara tried to reason out. “Or was Chill just one of the unfortunate with a gun?”

“I’ve never been perfectly certain,” the hero responded rather grimly. “But I’ve always felt an inclination towards the former explanation.”

“I think it makes sense, although I don’t really know either,” Meara admitted awkwardly. “No one ever actually clarified that in the Batman mythos, as far as I know.”

“Mythos,” Dick repeated with a moderately straight voice, lifting one eyebrow in dry amusement. “What, has Bruce turned into Odysseus now?”

“I’m tired of saying the words _universe_ , _world_ , and _reality_ nonstop,” Meara exhaled shortly. Sighing with much less humor at the young woman’s short tone, Dick sat back in his seat and lifted his hands palm forward in supplication. The brunette would have continued if not for her host’s intervention.

“Fortunately,” Bruce interrupted, eyes on the clock even if his firm tone focused entirely on Meara, “we’ll have to shelve our question-and-answer session for a later date. We really do have work now.”

“Oh, it’s that late already?” Meara exclaimed, checking the clock in surprise, her agitation seemingly forgotten. “Today seems to be flying by.”

“Probably for the best right now,” Bruce decided, rising from his seat. Dick and Tim easily followed with waves of farewell and the three made their way out, Bruce adding as he left, “You know how to reach us, Alfred. Good night, Meara.”

“Good night,” Meara called out a bit forlornly.

“Something the matter, Miss Meara?” Alfred asked form her side, and the young woman turned abruptly to face his understanding expression.

“I was just… kind of enjoying myself,” she admitted with a little embarrassment. “And… well, I’m missing their company already.”

“Perhaps working in the ballroom again would take your mind off of it?” the butler suggested.

“I don’t think so,” Meara responded quietly, “but I suppose I can try.”

Alfred smiled kindly and left to attend his dishes and leftovers, while Meara slowly rose from the empty dining table and made her way to the ballroom once more.

The walls did have a lot of work left in them, the brunette had to admit. With a brief sigh, Meara began her work again. Although not as all-consuming as it had been that afternoon, the work did take her mind off of the abruptly stilted dinner conversation. Acknowledging that Bruce’s intervention was likely her own fault after the irritated manner in which she’d responded to Dick, Meara cringed at her own overreaction to the simple teasing, but pushed herself to forget it in her renovation work.

Unfortunately, as the minutes passed by and her ministrations produced rich blue wallpaper inch by inch, the activity that took her mind off of her earlier fun and subsequent cringe-worthy behavior also wore her body down considerably. By the midnight hour, Meara felt herself drowsing at the oddest moments, a brush or a swab dangling minutely in her lax fingers whenever she startled awake. After the sixth or seventh time drowsing this way, the brunette fell asleep again, this time a bit longer lasting.

It wasn’t the bob of her head which made Meara wake the next time; the exhausted young woman realized someone carried her with sure, smooth steps.

Another drowsy moment stole further examination from the brunette, until she fumbled awake in what she realized were the many thick, dark blankets of her bed in the Caligo Room. Chancing a glance at the clock to reveal it was almost four o’clock in the morning, Meara wondered what had woken her this time. Incapable of telling through the pitch dark of her new room, she attempted to lie back down and sleep longer, bur rest eluded her for another half-hour.

Sighing frustratedly, Meara rose from the bed in a fitful state of insomnia and decided she would brave walking through the mansion again.

In her sleepy agitation, the young woman’s fear of darkness manifested itself tenfold in every dark corner as she left her room and walked the halls. The same path of fright she had taken the previous evening led her once more down to the main level and towards the main entrance, where light from the outside led her falsely to the unlit foyer.

Breathing more stringently than usual, Meara quickly and mindlessly made her way back until the dining room came into view. Expecting more of the darkness that had so shrouded the house the night before, the stormy-eyed young woman started at the warmth oozing from the kitchen doorway and immediately made her way across the dining room to reach it.

What Meara saw in the kitchen stopped the young woman in her tracks.

Bruce sat alone at the kitchen table, dark hair blatantly disheveled and fitted navy t-shirt revealing a noticeable fresh scar along his lower arm and elbow. Someone had already stitched the long wound neatly, but the vivid red coloring of Bruce’s skin made Meara cringe.

“It’s really not that bad,” Bruce wryly remarked without even turning around, continuing to eat the food in front of him.

“It’s easy to forget you have that frightening sixth sense,” Meara responded quietly, still standing in the open doorway with her arms crossed awkwardly.

Chuckling, Bruce finally turned to look at the young woman over his right shoulder. “I wouldn’t call it a sixth sense; just a higher level of atmospheric awareness than most people take into consideration.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Meara supposed that was as good a way as any to explain the situation.

Bruce nodded his head to indicate her approach and simply offered, “Sit.”

With a slightly hesitant step, the brunette took the billionaire’s suggestion and settled into the seat on his right.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Bruce inquired, sliding his plate sideways to offer her some of the fruit, cheese, and vegetables he’d selected.

Meara shook her head negatively, picking up a square of marbled cheese as she asked a question of her own, “What about you?”

“Just finished patrol,” the hero replied, watching her from the corner of his eye with odd focus.

“Nothing much out there tonight?” Meara wondered mildly, popping the cheese square in her mouth.

“No, not really,” Bruce answered her, gaze lessening in its intensity. “After last week, it was a cakewalk.”

“What happened last week?” Meara wondered with furrowed brows.

“Ellipse,” was his immediate answer, and Meara raised one brow in confusion. Catching the lifted brow from his peripheral vision, Bruce added patiently, “It’s the toxin Devil Ray gave you.”

Eyes widening, Meara inquired further, “What do you know about it?”

“Crane apparently created it about five months ago,” Bruce explained, sitting back against his chair and twisting to face Meara more straightforwardly.

“What do you mean by _apparently_?” the young woman questioned confusedly.

Bruce seemed to struggle with himself for a number of moments, looking at Meara with an inexplicable expression, until something flickered and remained solid in his piercing blue eyes.

“There were similar cases of victimization much earlier than Crane’s so-called creation of the toxin,” said Bruce, pausing in slight discomfort as he added, “…between twenty and thirty years earlier, in fact.”

“ _Twenty and thirty years_?” Meara exclaimed in surprise, sitting back a bit harder than intended. “Crane wasn’t even the Scarecrow then! Batman didn’t exist then; you were just a kid!”

Shrugging and nodding at the same time, Bruce looked equally confident and confused, “I agree that it doesn’t make sense within the context of our current evidence. And I can’t exactly find data more than twenty years old around this city, either. Gotham, like Detroit, has a distinct reputation for terrible record-keeping. Gotham General lost a good deal of information, as well, when it was bombed, so any hospital records from twenty years ago could very well be extinct."

“How did you find out about these earlier cases, then?” the young woman asked, frowning.

“Newspapers,” was Bruce’s simple answer. “While many environmental and chronological details might become clouded and muddied through sensationalism and gossip-mongering, the strangest details – blue gash marks, translucent skin, profuse bleeding – are more likely to remain consistent.”

“Their strangeness makes them noteworthy,” Meara reasoned thoughtfully. “People will report them more honestly because they’re so unusual in the first place.”

“Precisely right,” Bruce nodded once, “From one account to another, a gash might have changed from centimeters to inches in size, but it was still blue on the edges and elliptical in shape.”

“Why did you decide to look at old newspapers?” the brunette queried interestedly. “It doesn’t seem like an obvious thing to track down.”

“It’s a rather unusual kind of drug for Crane to take on; not his typical fear-inducing drugs,” said Bruce, turning to stare in concentration at the light-stained surface of the kitchen table. “He nonetheless did make the drug for a little while. I thought I’d cleaned out the last of it a few weeks ago, but Harley Quinn showed up spreading the trash around like candy. After I dealt with her, I honestly thought it was eliminated, but then somehow Devil Ray got a hold of some.”

“I get the feeling Crane was cut off from the resources which would have made it possible for him to supply the toxin these last two times?” Meara slowly suggested.

“Exactly,” Bruce agreed with sudden emphasis, turning to face her head-on. Meara was struck by the intensity of his analytical gaze. “When I realized he was unable to get the resources necessary to make Ellipse, I knew there had to be, if not a separate source, then at least a sister source. Besides that, such a brief length of time seemed highly unusual.”

Seeing Meara’s enduring curiosity, Bruce sighed and chuckled simultaneously, shrugging as he explained his reasoning, “Crane tends to take a very long time to make his creations and test them out, which is why antidotes to his fear toxin remain effective even years afterward. He never changes unless he knows his product will work as he intends it to. A month or two is nowhere near enough time for anything he personally created to be out on the market, so to speak. It was just one more reason to believe another source existed, most likely an entirely separate one. So I set a search for news articles describing similar effects as what you endured two days ago.”

“But that’s as far as you can get?” Meara deduced.

“Without more information, yes,” Bruce sighed heavily. “I’d hoped the unusual quality to your situation might help clear it up, but nothing more has come along in that vein.”

“It’s too bad,” the young woman exhaled disappointedly. “I hoped it might have started to come together.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Bruce promised firmly.

“Thank you,” replied Meara gratefully. After a beat, she asked, “Where are your two sidekicks?”

“Tim and Dick are already sleeping,” the billionaire replied with a smidgen of amusement buried in his eyes. “At least I hope so. They didn’t get but a few hours between them after chasing Harley’s paper trail for a week.”

“Let’s hope they have a better time than I did,” Meara sighed irritably.

“When Dick carried you up to your room, he said you were sound asleep,” Bruce frowned.

“Dick carried me up there?” the twenty-one-year-old started slightly, turning to look at Bruce in surprise. “I thought he was on patrol with you?”

“Dick brought the headset with him by mistake,” the dark-haired hero answered. “I didn’t want that kind of communication out in the field. Any of our enemies could have used it to their advantage. So I sent him to take the headset back home. Unfortunately he’d already had it with him a few hours, but thankfully nothing happened in that time.”

“What made him carry me upstairs, though?” Meara wondered in ongoing confusion. “Not that it wasn’t nice of him…”

“Something fell and I heard it over the line,” came a voice from the doorway. Meara turned sharply to find Dick himself standing there. “I was worried when you didn’t answer, so I checked on you.”

“Oh, it must have been that brush I was using,” Meara recalled with a sigh. “I remember dropping one while I was dozing off. Thank you, Dick.”

“No problem,” he shrugged, ambling over to take a seat across from them.

“You don’t know what woke you?” Bruce asked Meara curiously.

“No,” Meara sighed again, this time slower and more wearily. “What time did you take me up there, Dick?”

“Around one-thirty,” he answered easily.

“I don’t know why my body couldn’t just stay asleep,” the young woman groaned quietly. “I’m tired, but…”

“I know the feeling,” Dick sighed frustratedly.

“Couldn’t sleep, either?” Bruce concluded of his son’s predicament.

“I tried to, but I think I need to wind down first,” Dick exhaled tiredly. “Or exhaust myself. Whichever.”

“Several hours of patrol doesn’t exhaust you?” Meara inquired with a raised brow.

“Not anymore,” Dick snorted. “After eight years, your body gets used to a certain level of activity.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve hit a plateau in that vein,” Bruce told his son dryly.

“Tim hasn’t,” Dick grinned, his teeth a perfect row of white pearls. “I could hear him snoring when I walked by.”

“Did he leave the door open again?” Bruce suppressed a tiny smirk while Meara laughed quietly.

“Wide and waving,” Dick confirmed with a little chuckle.

“I guess he does that a lot?” Meara half-smiled.

“Every few nights, he just sprawls over the bed in his workout clothes,” Dick shook his head amusedly. “He goes a few days at the same level of exertion, and then it’ll catch up to him and he sleeps like the dead for about ten hours straight.”

“I’m glad it’s still summer,” Bruce sighed unhappily. “I know how much he and I hate cutting his patrol hours back.”

“You don’t hate it,” Dick snorted a second time. “You love him staying safe here at home.”

“Still,” said Bruce with a twitch to his lips, “I do appreciate his help out on the streets. And when school starts, he probably won’t be too happy with me.”

“Is Tim ahead in school?” wondered Meara.

“No,” Bruce denied. “Much as he deserves the credit, I don’t want his intelligence to be any more obvious than it already is. With what we do out on patrol and his constant need for sleep, he probably couldn’t keep up with the workload anyway.”

“He groans about it enough as it is,” Dick smiled fondly.

“All an image,” Bruce shook his head at the antics of his youngest son, turning to Meara and adding, “Tim actually loves schoolwork. Keeps his brain running.”

“If things had been different, I think I would have loved schoolwork, too,” Meara decided nostalgically.

“Can’t say I was ever really fond of it,” Dick disagreed, making a face at the thought.

Bruce exhaled on a quiet laugh, “You certainly did fight me on it. But when you got down to it, you did good work.”

“Well enough, I guess,” the nineteen-year-old shrugged, but Meara could see Bruce’s compliment pleased him. “Not like you and Tim, though. Genius level intellect doesn’t come to us all, you know.”

Bruce didn’t reply to that, just shrugged in resigned acceptance of the remark. Meara had to laugh at the casual reaction to being called a genius.

“I’m not modest,” Bruce confessed plainly. “Denying the facts only puts you beneath your own potential.”

“That’s exactly why it doesn’t bother me,” Dick agreed comfortably.

“You’re not exactly slow, Dick,” Bruce rolled his eyes, but Dick only shrugged again and left the room in a long period of silence.

“This is off-topic,” Meara spoke up in the ensuing quiet, sitting straighter in her seat. “But what should I wear tomorrow? Or…”

Happening to notice dawn peeking in through the windows, Meara edited, “…well, today, actually.”

“Something casual and comfortable,” Bruce answered, thinking over the situation with furrowed brows. “The temperature is supposed to be cooler today, so dress accordingly. Wear a jacket to cover your neck and wrists, boots that cover your ankle, and a pair of gloves.”

“That’s kind of an odd request,” Meara commented with a frown.

“Not when you’re riding a motorcycle, it isn’t,” Dick remarked, his focus mostly on the plate Bruce and Meara had abandoned.

“Motorcycle?” Meara repeated, voice stretching to a humiliatingly high note. Bruce and Dick both stared at her wide eyed expression blankly.

Bruce recovered first, slowly responding, “It’s the easiest way to get around in this situation. We’ll be stopping and starting quite a bit, and taking a car would be more of a hassle. Plus the motorcycle isn’t as obvious a sign that it’s Bruce Wayne riding around with a new ‘friend’ at his side. It may seem silly, but I swear to you I get far less gossip when I take the motorcycle.”

“It helps that Alfred isn’t there to clue them in,” Dick remarked humorously.

“Okay,” Meara muttered weakly. “Less gossip. Great. Now when can I start feeling sick?”

“The fresh air of the motorcycle will help that a bit,” Bruce finally chuckled. “Don’t worry so much. You’ll be fine.”

“That’s what you think,” the young woman groaned deeply, sinking into a full slouch and staying there in the ensuing silence until Alfred came to make breakfast.

* * *


	5. Chapter 4: Haunted

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 4: Haunted**

After what would normally be a delicious breakfast of eggs, toast, cereal, fruit, and orange juice, Dick left the table to get ready and Bruce followed with an additional recommendation that Meara bring a hat on their tour.

"Just a basic hat," he said easily on his way to the door, "nothing too fancy or too heavy over the eyes. A simple alteration in your appearance can often deter attention better than a full change of costume."

With both men gone, Meara soon realized there were no options left but to head back up to the Caligo Room and dress for the day. She hadn't even tasted her food, too worried about the possibility of being sick on the motorcycle Bruce insisted they take.

Sighing heavily, Meara put her hair in a low, loose bun and then moved into her new closet to search out something to wear. There was little instruction for fashion in the Wayne household, and the young brunette had little idea what might be proper. Nonetheless, Bruce had said casual comfort with a jacket and boots.

Playing it safe, Meara put together one of the mildest and least stylistic outfits she had in her new wardrobe. A simple white button-down, sea green skinny jeans, and a thin red belt to start with. After considering the jackets and boots in her possession, Meara finally pulled on a taupe leather zip jacket that folded over the neck with a black hood attached, and matching taupe ankle boots.

Although she had nothing to put in a purse, Meara felt undressed without one hanging on her body somehow, and grabbed a small crossbody with stripes in white and green that matched her jeans close enough to not clash.

On the way out of the room, Meara stopped on a dime and recalled Bruce suggesting the hat and a pair of gloves. Turning back to the chest of drawers where she and Alfred had unpacked those particular items, Meara found a crocheted black slouch hat that would do, but didn't see anything other than fashion gloves waiting for her; none of them would suit for cool weather or riding a motorcycle, she was sure. Frowning, the young woman decided to ask Bruce for help in that regard and headed downstairs as she was, stuffing the hat in her empty purse.

"You look lovely, Miss Meara," Alfred smiled approvingly at Meara's outfit as she took the last few steps, "and quite fitted to the occasion of the day."

"Thank you, Alfred," Meara smiled at the gentlemanly butler, stepping off the stairs and covering the short distance towards him. "I'd like to get some makeup, though."

"I'm sure Master Bruce would be happy to drive you near a cosmetics establishment," Alfred chuckled pleasantly. "There are a fair number in Gotham, that's for certain. And you'll have plenty of time today."

A glance at the clock proved it was still only a quarter after seven. "I'm not too early, then?"

"Not at all," Alfred assured her. "Master Bruce is bringing the motorcycle around front as we speak. Oh, and he asked me to give you these motorcycle gloves. They may be a bit loose, but they'll do for now."

So saying, Alfred handed over a pair of black leather gloves as the grumble of the bike in question drew both of their gazes to the foyer. Another minute passed and then Bruce came in through the front door, dressed in black jeans and a well-worn black leather jacket with a red collar and red sleeve panels that Meara couldn't help recognizing with surprise.

"Meara," Bruce greeted her, swiping a hand through his windswept hair. "How are the gloves?"

"Oh," the brunette shook herself and tried them on, the black leather hanging loosely against her skin. "Well, they're too big, but if I tighten the strap on my wrist it should work out okay."

"We'll stop and buy you some of your own while we're out," Bruce decided easily.

"And some cosmetics, sir," Alfred added, "Miss Meara was just asking about purchasing some. I must admit, that completely slipped my mind when we were out shopping."

"Happens to the best of us, Alfred," Bruce half-smiled at his butler before turning to Meara again. "That'll be our first stop; the place I have in mind should have both gloves and makeup for you. Did you happen to grab a purse?"

"Yes, actually, I did," Meara answered, holding up the striped accessory. "I know I don't have anything to put in it, but I feel naked without one."

"Well, you have something now," Bruce informed the young woman mysteriously. "Come on in the lounge with me."

Lost as to what Bruce could have for her, Meara followed as instructed, only to find a slew of paperwork laid out on the low table between the elegant sofas. Catching her amazed expression, Bruce smiled quite genuinely and told her, "You're legal now. Birth certificate, social security card, driver's license, immunization record, school records, passport…"

"It's barely been two days!" Meara exclaimed, stunned as she stared at the data spread. "How did you make them so fast?"

"With these," Bruce answered, offering up a license and social security card that looked awfully familiar. "I needed your data and your picture. That was the only reason I kept them this long, I promise you."

Having explained himself, the billionaire offered up the two items in question, but Meara didn't take them.

"There's really no point in my keeping them now, is there?" she reasoned practically, despite her strong desire to keep the objects in her possession after so long of carrying them. "I can't use them anymore. And… it would probably be safer if you kept them somewhere secure. Wouldn't it?"

"I won't deny it seems more practical for me to tuck them away in the cave," Bruce answered reasonably. "They're a fairly large giveaway to your real history."

"Do I have to change any of that, by the way?" Meara questioned a bit nervously.

"Nothing much that I can think of," Bruce shrugged. "We can take some time to search out similar homes to where you lived in your previous life, and I'll adjust those addresses accordingly in your files. One of the documents on the table is a compilation of such information I added or modified so far. You can study it, but the best thing we can do is take a trip to Detroit and look those places over. Just so you know what they look like; the layout and the landscape, the neighbors, the general atmosphere... Things you would know if you lived there."

"When would we have time for that?" Meara asked, overwhelmed by the mere idea on top of everything else she was learning.

"This weekend," Bruce offered knowingly. "This is a lot to take in, but I think you need to experience the overwhelming feeling of everything. It won't get any easier, and you'll need to know how to handle it in future. Can you try?"

Biting her lip worriedly, Meara considered everything she still needed to do and the absolute enormity of the lies she was taking on. There were lies about her past, lies about her experiences, lies about how she met Bruce Wayne or what happened in Detroit, lies about who she really was deep underneath everything…

But then… there was nothing else.

Gotham was Meara's life now. Bruce and Batman and his entire world were now her life. He was protecting her and all she could do was return that protection by doing her best to cover the lies they were forced to keep up.

"I'll do my best," Meara quietly agreed, stormy blue eyes intent on the icy blue of the man who had given her a life where there would otherwise have been none.

"Good," was Bruce's simple reply as he turned back to the paperwork. "I also have some other items you're going to need, but we're going to wait on those until tomorrow, which is when your signing bonus will be applied to your account. I—"

"Signing bonus?" Meara interrupted, blinking away surprise. "What signing bonus?"

"Ah, I didn't tell you yet, did I?" Bruce sighed, plainly irritated with himself. "I apologize. Fact of the matter is… you won't be interning at the company, after all. Which is good, really. Interns only get minimal hourly pay at Wayne Enterprises. With the position that just opened up, you'll have a healthy annual salary."

"Annual… salary…" Meara repeated blankly.

"Urban Planning had an opening for Administrative Assistant," Bruce explained more patiently, taking his time with her slow comprehension. "Part of the offer is a signing bonus, which takes effect tomorrow. Plus you'll have a small annual bonus for being liaison to Queen Consolidated."

"Whoa – wait… what?" Meara spluttered incoherently.

"Don't think I don't know you have a good understanding of Starling City and the Queen family," Bruce intervened before the young woman sputtered any further. "From what little I saw, that television show is more accurate than you might think."

"You… what do you mean?" Meara started. "How did you know that? I never mentioned that! …Now that I think about it… how did you know _anything_? You knew about things I never once mentioned!"

"I thought you'd ask this question a lot sooner," Bruce commented calmly, reaching for something on the table of papers.

"Well, I just saw it as par the course and never even gave a second thought to it," Meara scoffed loudly, crossing her arms in irritation. "You're the blasted Batman, the greatest detective… You know things when people don't expect you to. But now that I think more closely on the subject, I want to know _how_ you know these things about me."

"Zatanna," was the simple answer, still maddeningly calm as he handed over a new driver's license for Meara to grasp.

"How did she… oh… Oh, I see," Meara suddenly recalled the cartoon episode with Circe. "She showed you in the crystal ball."

"Yes, she did," Bruce responded. "Only bits and pieces, though. It seemed as though only the most vital information showed up. Whatever else happened, whether or not you reveal any of it… it's all in your court from here on out."

"Yes, it's all in my court," Meara retorted irritably. "After I find out what else you already know or suspect about my life. Which will happen, I promise you."

"Eventually," Bruce retorted with mild humor in vast contrast to his companion's frustration. "Now, take your license and let's go see the sights."

The first sight to grace Meara's eyes didn't encourage her much – particularly as she was still annoyed at the master of the manor.

At the base of the steps leading to the front door, a familiar, fierce-looking, red and silver motorcycle with yellow on the center of the wheel waited silently for its owner to rev it up.

"I am not going to enjoy this," Meara muttered to herself, snatching a silver helmet out of Bruce's extended hands and causing him to smother a chuckle as he pulled out his own black helmet and settled on the bike in one smooth sweep of his leg.

Turning to look at the brunette's reluctant expression over his left shoulder, Bruce offered a wry smirk in return. "Come on, Meara. It won't get any better the longer you stare at it."

Exhaling in further annoyance, the young woman stomped forward to take a seat behind the daredevil billionaire and pulled on her helmet. Bruce wordlessly pointed to the correct places for Meara's feet to rest. Another smirk graced his handsome face, and Meara found herself scowling at him.

"Now I know why you annoy people," she remarked as the man threw on his helmet.

The growl of the motorcycle's engine almost covered Bruce's loud snort, but Meara didn't have time to consider it. It took all of her energy remembering to put her arms around the man's waist and hold on for dear life as he sped off down the drive of the manor.

Most of the drive into the city seemed blindsided by trees and greenery, flowering plants of all kinds whirring past. Finally, the greenery thickened into one mass on either side and as suddenly as the drop from a cliff face, bushy green ended and perfectly trimmed grass took its place. Buildings nearer than expected took Meara's breath away. Old buildings covered this section of Gotham, a vast maze of beautiful old architecture.

In viewing Wayne Manor, the young woman had expected all other places to look modern and plain by comparison. When Alfred took her shopping, this was not the same route he had taken; the highway had been his choice to get the day done more quickly and Meara had clearly missed out on the beauty Gotham could display.

Newer establishments took up residence along the way, and Meara expected one of them was where they might stop for her makeup and gloves. Quite to the contrary, however, Bruce finally parked the bike in a small parking alley beside a tiny, quaint, stone-faced shop with narrow lavender awnings and a small sign reading 'Expressions' in a very simple style of cursive.

Meara had never been more grateful to take off a piece of headgear as she was when the motorcycle stopped completely, almost ripping the silver helmet off her skull and stepping off the bike in a humiliating stumble. Having already taken off his helmet, Bruce chuckled over the action.

"Feeling a little better now?" he asked quietly, and in spite of some lingering irritation, Meara just rolled her eyes and shoved at his arm to get him off the bike. Shaking his head, Bruce did as suggested and led the way inside the back entrance of the shop, even holding open the door.

"Oh, welcome back, Mr. Wayne," a kind voice called from the front of the business.

Meara turned with Bruce to find a middle-aged woman with short gray hair and a reasonably stylish ensemble of charcoal palazzos and a white wrap-front blouse with blue stripes. She wore no jewelry, except for a gold wedding set which looked well cared for.

"Any problems, Mrs. Hanover?" Bruce smiled amicably at the older woman, reaching out to shake her waiting hand.

"I haven't had 'problems' in the last eight years," Mrs. Hanover smiled back with a touch of amusement. "And yet you still ask that question whenever you visit."

"I'm a creature of habit," Bruce remarked wryly, and the double meaning was not lost on Meara.

"Well, I'm doing wonderfully," the woman concluded pleasantly. "Kendall even appreciates the place now, and you know how picky she always is."

"Still doesn't like strawberry with sprinkles?" Bruce winked familiarly.

Laughing, Mrs. Hanover answered, "No, she doesn't, as a matter of fact!"

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're both doing good," Bruce finished the topic at hand, and turned to gesture Meara forward. Once she had stepped up beside him, Bruce spoke again, "Mrs. Hanover, this is a friend of ours, Meara Nolan. She's had to make a sudden life change and needs a few last-minute items."

"It's nice to meet you, Meara," Mrs. Hanover addressed the brunette with a genuine smile, shaking her hand also. "You go ahead and look around. I'll bore Bruce so he doesn't have to pretend he's interested in what you're buying."

"All right, Mrs. Hanover," Meara smiled back, forcing back a chuckle at the slightly offended look on Bruce's face. Even if it was for show, it was fairly amusing.

True to her word, the woman kept Bruce engaged in conversation the entire time Meara searched through makeup and motorcycle gloves, only stopping when Meara came up to the register at last. "Find everything you need?"

"Yes, I did," Meara answered, setting everything on the counter, her new black leather gloves the last to go up.

Mrs. Hanover bagged everything up in record time and even denied Bruce's cash with an exasperated look. "You took care of us and set me up in business. I'll be darned if I make you pay for helping someone else the way you helped me and mine. Now put that away."

Sighing in equal exasperation, Bruce reluctantly did as he was told. Meara battled laughter as the lady handled the powerful Batman like a stray puppy lost in the road.

"You just keep doing what you're best at," Mrs. Hanover told Bruce firmly, "and help people who can't help themselves. Have a good day now, you two."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hanover," Meara gratefully accepted the bags. "It was nice meeting you."

"The same to you, honey," the owner offered one last smile. "Good luck with starting fresh."

Meara nodded her further thanks and let Bruce lead her out of the business and back to the bike.

"How do you know Mrs. Hanover?" Meara couldn't help asking curiously.

With a small huff of sadness, Bruce explained, "When I met Ruth Hanover, she'd just lost her husband, Alan. They separated while their daughter, Kendall, was in elementary school, but it was more circumstances than personal trouble and they both regretted it. They would have gotten remarried if Alan hadn't been stuck in the middle of a firefight downtown."

"What happened?" Meara wondered sadly.

"When Alan died, he had a lot of debt, and Ruth felt like she should take care of it," Bruce continued, leaning against his motorcycle with arms crossed thoughtfully, "When I came onto the scene, Ruth was fighting to keep this shop open, but Alan's debts were too much. I was there the night Alan died, trying to stop the firefight as Batman, but it wasn't enough. So I did whatever I could do for Ruth and Kendall, including paying for the debts, Alan's funeral, and enough to keep Ruth comfortably in business until she made enough revenue on her own."

"What was that strawberry and sprinkles bit?" the young woman had to know.

Snorting amusedly, Bruce answered, "While Ruth dealt with her creditors, I took Kendall for ice cream down the street. She wouldn't talk after her father's death, which meant she wouldn't tell me what she wanted, so I ordered strawberry ice cream. She accepted the ice cream well enough, and I thought something cheerful like sprinkles would get her talk. It usually works with young kids. But…"

"Kendall is picky," Meara finished for him. "…She doesn't like sprinkles, does she?"

"No, she does not," Bruce shook his head humorously. "Sprinkles got her to talk. Just not the way I expected."

"And this happened in 2005?" Meara determined thoughtfully.

"Eight years ago," the billionaire nodded with some interest. "You pay attention."

"Always have, for the most part," the brunette shrugged.

"Anything else you need?" asked Bruce.

Meara thought for a moment, but shook her head. "Not that I can think of."

"All right, we'll get going then," Bruce decided, swinging back on the bike and pulling on his helmet.

With a sigh of resignation, Meara followed suit and held on tightly as they drove back onto the main road. More architecture passed them by, and Meara appreciated the chance to distract herself from the bike ride.

After traveling quite a ways from Ruth Hanover's shop, Bruce and Meara began to pass less beautiful buildings; the structures became chipped and damaged beyond the normal wear and tear of time. Even further down the road, the buildings started to sport wooden slats nailed over doorways and sheets draped in windows.

Old, derelict housing complexes and ratty apartments grew in frequency every minute that sped by, until finally Bruce pulled into an abandoned-looking warehouse lot with mostly gravel covering the ground. The only places nearby that looked inhabited were a delicatessen three buildings down, a pawn shop four buildings in the opposite direction, and a barber across the street.

Pulling off the helmet in sync with her companion, Meara hunched in on herself as if to ward off the creepy atmosphere. "Nice location you found."

"This is about the nicest it gets here," Bruce responded darkly. "This is the Narrows."

"You mean, where Arkham is?" Meara wondered, instinctively crouching nearer to Bruce.

Reaching around to place a reassuring hand over Meara's, Bruce replied, "Yes. Arkham Asylum. I wanted to stop here and let you see the Narrows in person. We'll drive past Arkham so you can see it, but I'm definitely not going to stop by it. It's enough that you know what it looks like."

"I'm not arguing with that," Meara shivered. "Let's go, please?"

"Of course," Bruce nodded understandingly, immediately putting his helmet on again. He only waited for Meara to do the same and retrain her grip on his waist before they flew out into the Narrows at a faster speed than Meara had yet experienced.

It wasn't too hard to spot Arkham Asylum when they started to head towards it, the black iron fencing with sharp pointed tips and barbed wire all too clear an indicator that dangerous people were kept inside. The sign itself displayed 'Arkham Asylum' in Gothic script that made Meara nervous all on its own as they rode by.

As quickly as they had entered the Narrows, Bruce sped back into a part of Gotham that felt much more normal and far less monstrous. The next stop they made still felt like the bad end of town, but not as terrible as Arkham had felt. Taking her helmet off didn't feel nearly as condemning to Meara.

"Where are we now?" the twenty-one-year-old inquired a bit confusedly.

"See that brick building across the street?" Bruce asked her.

"With the green shutters?" Meara clarified. "Yes, I see it."

"That's Leslie Tompkins' clinic," the billionaire explained. "Dr. Amina Franklin helps out, too. You asked about Dr. Tompkins last night, so I thought I should show you her place."

"Oh, okay," Meara nodded. "Is it just a normal clinic?"

"Mostly addicts and small-time jailbirds end up there," he said honestly. "But people down here who can't afford healthcare go there if they need help, too."

With little else to say about the clinic, the two of them once again scurried off to the next location on Bruce's tour. While Meara stood from the bike to give her legs a stretch, the billionaire had not moved at all from his position. Instead, he glanced around the poster-laden walls with a certain morbid expression Meara could not fully understand.

Meara couldn't say she understood the purpose of this next spot either and it took five minutes of staring around the trash-littered alley for Bruce to sigh and spit out his intention.

"This is where my parents were killed."

Inhaling sharply, Meara took a more careful look around her and realized the posters she saw on the nearest wall were not just advertisements for some random event. They were for the shows currently playing in the theater.

"We went to an opera that night," Bruce continued far more quietly than he'd spoken all day, pointing to the building across the alley from the theater. "But it was _Mephistopheles_ and after falling into the well on our property, I was frightened because of the actors dressed as bats. My father understood I was afraid and he packed us up. On the way out, he noticed the posters for my favorite film, _The Gray Ghost_. We went to see it instead, and I really did feel better…"

Swallowing hard against the obvious conclusion to that last statement, Meara wished she hadn't been so confused about where they were.

"I thought you should know," Bruce finished in murmur, taking a deep inhale to fortify himself. "I guess we're pretty even on sharing past history now."

Meara couldn't speak, silently returning to the bike and slipping on behind Gotham's protector to wait out whatever sad memories he relived.

"You don't have to feel badly," the hero told her knowingly. "I've come here many times since becoming… something more."

Sensing Meara's silence would not be broken, Bruce nodded once and wordlessly continued their journey.

Like Arkham Asylum, the police precinct was quite obvious even a ways back, but even as they parked in a tree-spattered lot across the street, Meara found herself little interested as the alleyway of Batman's birth kept running through her mind. From the tattered movie posters to the unlabeled back door of the theater, to the litter scattered between dumpsters and over the edges of the alley, everything depressed her.

Meara could imagine two good-hearted people lying in that alley, blood pooling around them as a little boy watched his whole world crash and burn after a night that should have ended with fear defeated. Just a little boy's fear of bats, and nothing more.

Instead, a child lost his parents as a planet losing its sun. One man stole not two, but three lives that night; and nothing could ever bring that back.

"Meara?" Bruce interrupted her dark musings, looking at her over his shoulder. Piercing blue examined her face in calculation until the man stood and faced her in one smooth, abnormally flexible swing over the handles of the bike. Grasping Meara's shoulder in firm fingers, Bruce murmured, "Don't do this to yourself. After what happened, I did it every day of my life. And I know you did it, too. After you lost your parents, your grandparents, your brother… For your own sake, let life override whatever is going through your mind right now. You know this leads nowhere."

"Knowing it and being able to stop are two different things," Meara uttered softly, looking down at her new black gloves emptily. "You should know that better than anyone."

Sighing roughly, Bruce swept through his black hair agitatedly and reapplied the pressure on Meara's shoulder. "I shouldn't have showed you. Telling you would have been enough… Look, we're going past the courthouse next, then we'll stop for lunch, and after that I still have more to show you of this city. For all it's darkness, it's not lost. And there are good things to see yet. Even I can admit that."

"How do you _do_ this?" Meara implored of him in a burst of quiet, desperate need for understanding, finally raising her haunted eyes to his. "How do you live every day with that and not lose yourself?"

"I could ask the same question," Bruce gently commented, giving a half-smile made of fortitude and kinship. "I may have chosen a mask to channel my grief, my loss, and my rage, but you have done the same without a mask."

"No, I haven't," Meara recoiled from the suggestion with a wince. "I only wish I was that strong."

"You are," Bruce insisted, his voice commanding attention. "Some day, you will realize just how strong you are, and no one will be able to overcome you. No matter what challenge you face, no matter what pain comes to you, even when you're knocked to the ground and you can't get up, that strength will keep burning inside you. I promise."

Caught in the middle of a war between what she had felt for years and what Bruce promised of the future, Meara couldn't quite make the leap to faith. Hope flared nonetheless, the faith of Batman himself bolstering her, however little.

She only whispered, "I hope you're right."

Accepting the hesitance and the doubt that would remain for the present, Bruce squeezed her shoulder and swung back on the bike without even upsetting Meara's place.

If anything, the courthouse they next visited kept Meara's mood as low as it was in front of the police precinct, but Bruce didn't linger and rapidly took them to lunch at a little place that was just as unassuming as 'Expressions' had been, though clearly it drew a larger crowd.

'Turner's Hearth' it was called, and while the redheaded owner wasn't as warmly familiar with Bruce as Ruth Hanover had been, the gentleman made no fuss about the famous guest waiting at the back door and simply sat them far at the back where they were separated from the front door by numerous plants and dividers.

"Do you have one of every type of business like this?" Meara remarked, feeling a little more herself in the comfortable restaurant.

"If you mean quiet hideaways where I get a full meal and won't be noticed, then yes, I do," Bruce chuckled even as his eyes gauged Meara's mood and outlook with a careful gaze.

"I'm… better," she admitted without having to be asked. "A little, anyway."

"Glad to hear it," the billionaire smiled and finally allowed his gaze to fall on the menu in his hand.

"Hi, my name is Joel, and I'll be taking your order today. What can I get you to drink?" the waiter arrived with a pleasant greeting before Meara could really decide.

"Water, please," Bruce responded first.

"I'll have a… strawberry tea, please," Meara chose after a moment's consideration.

"And for your meal?" Joel questioned.

"I'll have the Guacamole Burger, extra bacon, no onions," Bruce ordered with the ease of having been there many times before. "Sweet potato fries, coleslaw, and raspberry vinaigrette for the house salad."

Nodding at each addition as Bruce listed his choices, Joel finally turned to Meara. "And for you?"

"Suggestions?" Meara inquired of Bruce, setting the menu down. "I'm not really a sandwich person."

"Hm…" Bruce hummed in concentration, "Well, their Chicken Florentine is some of the best I've tried."

"I'll have that, then," Meara informed the waiter.

"White or wheat bread?"

"Do you have pita bread?" she countered hesitantly.

"Yes, we do," Joel nodded. "And what dressing for your salad?"

"Italian," Meara answered with ease. "Could I get a side of that for the pita bread, please?"

"Certainly," he assured her with a congenial smile. "Anything else I can get for you?"

"Just two straws at the moment," Bruce answered for both of them.

"All right, I'll be back with your drinks soon," Joel wrapped up and headed to the back.

"You certainly get a lot with one meal," Meara commented in surprise once he was gone.

"That's one reason I like it here," Bruce told her. "They make a good experience all around. The finest gourmet restaurant in Gotham doesn't have the same warmth as this place."

"I can imagine that," the young woman agreed, absorbing the comfortable atmosphere until their drinks arrived.

"Here you are," Joel smiled casually and handed off their glasses and two straws.

"Thank you," Meara said, grasping one of the straws left behind and starting in on her tea.

"Well, I think the next part of our tour will be much more palatable," Bruce announced, looking quite comfortable as he leaned back in his seat. "We'll drive by Gotham General, then the city bank through which I do business, and then we'll make a covert stop by Wayne Enterprises so you can get a look at it. After that, I have a couple of surprises. Pleasant ones this time, I swear."

Meara couldn't help smiling at Bruce's morbidly humorous side. "Thank you for trying to keep things lighter. I know it probably isn't as easy as you make it seem."

"You're a change from the normal routines," Bruce shrugged. "Anyway, it's easier to divert focus for someone who's not tied into your past so closely."

"That's true, I suppose," Meara inclined her head in agreement. "Thank you all the same."

"You're welcome," he said simply. "Why don't you tell me a little about your interests? Everything isn't work and duty here, thankfully."

"Oh, I didn't really do much before I came here," the young woman shrugged noncommittally. "Work, school… Whatever free time I had was devoted mostly to busy work around the house. I read when I could afford to buy a book. But only when I could buy it. Mainly because when I checked a book out of the library, I didn't have enough free time to read it before its due date. It just piled up fees and I never finished the books."

"An entire library is at your disposal," Bruce responded wryly. "No due dates required."

"I'm glad of that," Meara laughed lightly.

"Is there anything you'd like to try doing?" the billionaire queried interestedly. "You now have the resources to do anything you like. Half of which you could probably learn from Alfred or myself anyway, but that's beside the point."

Rolling her eyes at that statement, Meara sat back to think. "I really am open to a lot of things. I never got to participate in school sports, or other extracurricular activities, so I think almost anything sounds interesting."

"Well, you'll have the full gamut to choose from in Gotham," Bruce suggested as the waiter returned with their food. "Thank you, Joel."

"You're welcome," Joel responded amiably, settling Meara's entrée, salad, and bread in front of her before laying out Bruce's considerable spread of dishes. "Enjoy your lunch."

Another silent meal overtook Meara and Bruce, though this time the young woman didn't feel nearly as awkward as she had the previous evening. Given their relatively public setting, there seemed little else they could safely discuss without someone potentially overhearing.

On the tails of paying Joel, thanking the owner, and leaving by the back door the same as they had come, Bruce and Meara took off without discussion to Gotham General. They stopped in a neatly secluded spot across from the enormous hospital, but didn't get off the bike as Bruce quietly explained, "After the bombing here, I gave them a substantial donation to repair the structure. But I didn't donate for all the repairs."

"Why not?" Meara asked on tenterhooks.

"After the criminals were locked up and hysteria died down," Bruce answered quietly, "Gotham finally stood up to take care of what really matters – the city's people, and the means to take care of them and protect them. It was important and the citizens of this city needed to do it without either of my masks holding them up. If it wasn't their choice, then they would sink into fear and let others rule once more. While it isn't the best it could be, Gotham is a little better without organized crime having such a large foothold."

"Yes, that must be better," Meara murmured with a melancholy outlook.

"I didn't really plan to tell you any of that," Bruce exhaled a puff of laughter. "My reason for bringing you here is so you know where the hospital is. I can't think of a time when that wouldn't be important for everyone to know."

"Problem is, I don't know how to get here from Wayne Manor," Meara remarked dryly.

"I have a map for you," the billionaire informed her without batting an eyelash. "This – and the bank we're heading to next – are both on the map in very distinct markings. Besides, any car you drive will have GPS installed."

"That's always a plus in a new city," Meara half-laughed at the idea as Bruce pulled his helmet back on and prompted her to do the same.

The bank Bruce used turned out to be almost exactly the same as the one as they showed at the beginning of _The Dark Knight_ , and Meara practically shivered at the similarity. Bruce didn't seem to recognize her trouble, although she would never quote herself as saying that; the billionaire had a distinct talent for keeping mum on almost anything.

When it came to the details of the bank, Bruce once again chose not to elaborate in any overt manner, instead sticking to the direct facts pertinent to the moment in their parking spot across the road.

"I set up an account for you," the hero explained simply. "As I said, your signing bonus will be applied tomorrow, and you'll be able to get whatever else is necessary. You're very independent, so I thought you might like to use your own earnings as much as you can now."

"Thank you," Meara told him, feeling a bit repetitive but nonetheless grateful. "I am independent. I always had to be to survive."

"I don't think you need to go inside the bank just yet," Bruce continued. "Whenever we get to an overview of Gotham in general, we'll be more thorough about it. As it is, you have time to explore and adapt to the city in greater depth before you begin work."

"When is that going to be?" Meara asked. "It sounds set in stone, not as malleable and flexible as the internship."

"We're not entirely certain, actually," Bruce shrugged. "The current administrative assistant, Christina, is about eight months pregnant. She doesn't want to induce labor unless it's an emergency. Which means it's a waiting game right now. She could have the baby in a few days or in three weeks. It just depends. But I won't put you to work until you've had at least a week to adjust to Gotham, so don't worry about that."

"I thought you said the position just opened up?" was Meara's cautious reply.

"I didn't stutter, either," the billionaire returned with surprising lightness. "Christina was just going to use maternity leave for a time. When she returned to work, her mother planned to move near her and play nanny. But the deal on her mother's house fell through and she couldn't move as planned, so Christina is going to arrange her own business from now on."

"No father helping her out?" Meara wondered with a frown.

"He left when he found out she was pregnant," Bruce shook his head, brows drawn into a severe line. "There were all sorts of rumors when it happened, and Christina calling in sick that day only fueled them… At any rate, I'm giving her the start-up for a secretarial service she always dreamed of running. Anonymously, of course. She's good at her job and she enjoys it, so she'll do well."

"Do you ever stop giving?" Meara couldn't help wondering aloud, admiration leaking into her voice.

"There are always people to give to," the dark-haired hero half-smiled at her, his face awash in slight discomfort. "Now, let's hit the road again. Wayne Enterprises is just a short distance from here."

Being so close to the Wayne family company, Meara couldn't see the top of the building in all its glory, but the glistening glass and metal structure nevertheless caught and held her attention as they pulled into the parking ramp next door. Most of the spaces in the lower two-thirds of the enormous ramp had been filled, and as they drove further up, the spaces thinned until they reached the topmost section that beheld a mere four cars.

Bruce parked in the spot nearest to the building's entrance and led Meara inside a wide, empty corridor leading to another door.

"Put your hat on now," Bruce explained quietly, pulling a hat of his own from inside his leather jacket. The black leather newsboy cap softened the wild look of his messy hair and tough-looking jacket so much that Meara fully believed his comment that morning about simple changes to appearance working best. The way the cap barely shadowed the billionaire's blue eyes only reinforced that fact.

Taking care with her own hat, Meara arranged it so that only her bangs hung loose from the hat's edge; even her bun remained tucked under the black accessory.

"All right, we'll head to the stairs and go up from there," Bruce explained to Meara, nodding his head for her to follow him to the opposite doorway.

Not bothering to answer him, Meara simply did as she was told and shadowed the billionaire's path unnoticed into the stairwell at the right. The stairs remained empty as they made their way up, and finally Bruce stopped to open a door. The hallway they entered looked far fresher and cleaner than the stairs or the car park, and thankfully it also appeared totally empty. From there, Bruce finally entered the elevator and they made their way up to the fifty-ninth floor, exiting onto an even cleaner space with gleaming floors and crystal clear glass walls at various points.

"Annette, I don't need another stack of file folders, or a box of pens, or a new cup or coffee," came a deep, annoyed voice from further down the hall, and Meara frowned uncertainly. Bruce, however, chuckled at the sound and made his way down to the source as it added, "And I definitely don't need another interruption."

"Is that what I'm relegated to now, Mr. Fox?" Bruce remarked with a smile and took off his hat and gloves, walking up to the glass doorway ahead of them. Following his example in removing her gloves, Meara followed hesitantly a few steps behind to meet the real Lucius Fox.

"Bruce Wayne," that deep voice morphed into a friendly, pleasant tone, the warmth relaxing Meara as she finally crossed the threshold and laid eyes on the tall, dark-skinned President of Wayne Enterprises. Conversely, Fox halted upon seeing her step up beside Bruce. "And guest… Who would this young lady be, Mr. Wayne?"

"A friend of mine," Bruce responded, still smiling. "Lucius, meet Meara Nolan."

"Ah, the future member of the Urban Planning department," Lucius quickly brought to bear, surprising Meara with his quick association of her name and situation. The man extended his hand in congenial greeting, "I'm glad you're coming on board, Miss Nolan. Welcome to Wayne Enterprises."

"Thank you, Mr. Fox," Meara accepted his hand firmly.

"A good hand shake is always a good sign," Lucius remarked with a smile. "Looks like you might have found another gem, Bruce. Of course, you always seem to. I'm starting to think I should make you head of the hiring department instead of the top office."

"It's just using good sense, Lucius," Bruce shook his head. "Although really, Meara found us."

"More like Devil Ray found me," Meara couldn't hold back from saying.

"Well, that aside," Bruce chuckled, squeezing her shoulder in understanding. "So, Lucius, you're already fed up with your new assistant?"

Sighing tiredly, Fox answered more understandingly, "Annette is new, I know, and… well, I suppose in the beginning it's always natural to want to do your job perfectly so the boss keeps you on the staff roster, but it's getting a little ridiculous."

"Have Delia speak to her," Bruce offered knowingly. "She's good with new recruits."

"Will do," Lucius agreed with a single nod, moving to take a seat behind his desk and gesturing for them to take the two in front. "What can I do for you, Bruce?"

"I just wanted Meara to get a feel for the place before she starts," Bruce answered as he sat down. "She's going to be nervous enough as it is when the work begins without getting lost in the building."

"Oh, she won't be moving around much," Lucius assured them both, expression unfazed. "Urban Planning assistants handle the office work while the bosses go out into the world. Most of Meara's work will be here in the company on the forty-sixth floor."

"So paperwork… lots of paperwork," Meara concluded a little unhappily.

"I'm afraid so," Lucius chuckled at her weary tone, "But I doubt you'll have to stay there long. If you're as determined and hard-working as Bruce says, you'll rise in the company before you know it."

"To handle bigger and better paperwork," Bruce commented dryly, and Meara couldn't help but laugh a little.

* * *


	6. Chapter 5: Damaged

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 5: Damaged**

A spirited conversation with Lucius Fox about Wayne Enterprises and the Urban Planning department left Meara feeling lighter than when they arrived, and by the time they rose to leave, she actually felt a little reluctant to go.

"It really has been a pleasure, Miss Nolan," Lucius smiled genuinely as they shook hands one more time.

"The same, Mr. Fox," the young woman responded with a matching smile.

"I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow, Lucius," Bruce shook the chairman's hand as well.

"Let's hope it's a short one," Fox laughed a bit.

Snorting doubtfully, Bruce just shook his head and guided Meara out of the office and back to the stairwell. The same silent path led them back to the motorcycle.

"Ready for the first surprise?" Bruce asked, ending the silence pleasantly, helmet in hand.

"I suppose so," Meara half-smiled. "Not that I would know if I'm ready for something that's a surprise."

"Touché," Bruce chuckled and pulled his helmet on. Meara followed suit and hung on as the billionaire sped to their next destination.

The docks didn't exactly make sense for a surprise location, until Meara saw Wayne Enterprises stamped and engraved on various trailer storage units around them.

With their helmets on, Meara couldn't exactly speak with Bruce about her suspicions, but the young woman didn't have to wait long to find out if she was correct. The hero drove straight up to a container as it opened seemingly of its own accord to allow them to pass through by the merest of margins.

They stopped inside the dark container as the doors closed in on them, the sunlight steadily dwindling in vertical strips until it became pitch black for a stretch of time Meara could barely fathom.

Breath thickened and growing erratic in the silent blackness, memory serving due damage as another dark and blank space crowded the mind in painful waves, Meara could hardly stand to be in her own skin of a sudden. Her mind stormed and raged with the feelings, rational thought slowly leaving her as the moment returned to wreak havoc on her every sense.

Everything became so hopeless, so pointless, and terribly frightening. Meara could have choked on her own breath as it seemed to clog her throat. Words would not escape, not a sound would leave her in that horrifying moment of frozen panic.

" _Look_ at me, Meara!"

Bruce Wayne's stern, unyielding voice invaded the madness and fear like a sharp jab to the side, unexpectedly blanketing the young woman with a sense of safety and trust she couldn't repress.

Through a slow, churning blur that focused into a vision of Bruce's ice blue eyes piercing her own mere inches away, Meara realized light flooded the space around her. Fairly gentle, undemanding in its presence and unassuming in its manner, the calm illumination brought the brunette back from wild senselessness, apparent numbness in her facial features giving way to the feeling of calloused hands on either side of her overly warm face.

Pain behind Meara's eyes gave away the tightness with which she must have held them closed throughout the debilitating haze of moments prior.

"Meara, can you hear me?" Bruce questioned her as gently as his concern and limited patience allowed him.

"Y-yes," the young woman answered with a breath, finally taking in a true piece of the air surrounding her as her mind settled into a far more reasonable frame.

Breath left the billionaire in a warm huff that plumed in Meara's face, but Bruce's hands remained on her flushed cheeks.

"Don't move for a few minutes," the dark-haired vigilante told her firmly, no nonsense in his tone.

"Okay," Meara answered with another breath, and finally Bruce took his hands away from her face. "What happened?"

"You had a panic attack," Bruce informed her almost clinically, still squatting in front of her seat. "I assume the darkness brought it on."

"Yes," the soon-to-be-assistant responded simply, avoiding the thoughts that had so rampantly overwhelmed her mind not long before.

"I apologize," Bruce nodded at her, folding his hands across his bent knees. "I should have thought about that after what happened in the Caligo room, night before last."

"It's fine," Meara replied a bit shortly, adjusting herself subtly so that her back didn't smart so much. "I just want to forget it."

"As you wish," Bruce nodded again, eventually rising from his position and removing his jacket to reveal a gray pullover with buttons partway down the front. A blotch of vivid red on the right arm caught Meara's attention with all the force of a freight train.

"You… do know… your arm is bleeding _really_ badly right now… Right?" Meara almost squeaked the last word, the sight of the growing red spot on Bruce's light gray shirt too much for her to calmly accept after what she had been feeling the last several minutes.

"Well, I knew it reopened when I caught your fall," Bruce commented in mild surprise, pulling his sleeve away from the wound without even flinching, "I just didn't know it was bleeding quite this badly."

Meara followed Bruce's actions in total silence as he tugged off his shirt, pulled a medical cart alongside him, and settled on a stool to examine the now-open wound and soon after begin carefully pulling broken stitches out of his skin.

"I fell?" Meara asked for lack of a distraction from Bruce's red wound and – if she were brutally honest with herself – his remarkably fit upper body, scars and all.

"Off the bike," Bruce answered easily, albeit a little distractedly.

"Oh," Meara acknowledged for lack of a better response, forcing her morbidly fascinated gaze away from the medical circumstance before her and staring around at concrete walls and a curve of computer screens showing various items of interest to Batman's crusade.

In her sudden panic, the young brunette had forgotten about the surprise location Bruce brought her to.

"Is this your… city cave?" Meara asked reluctantly, using air quotes because she was unable to find a better name for the enormously long place in which they sat.

"Yes, it is," Bruce answered simply, setting aside the tweezers he had been using and reaching out for a needle and stitching thread just as a great sound of turning gears and shifting stone reached their ears.

"Ah, man…" Dick's frustrated groan reached them from the moving entrance a few moments later, but Bruce only moved at an incredibly uncomfortable angle to look at his wound. "What are you even thinking? You can't suture, remember?"

Meara turned nervous eyes to watch Dick make his casual amble across the floor towards them, one hand in his jeans pocket and the other holding a black jacket.

"I can suture just fine," Bruce replied sharply, still bent at that awkward angle, only now he was planning to actually stitch the wound.

"When it's someone else," Dick snorted, reaching them at last and tossing his jacket haphazardly on the nearest table. "But on yourself? Uh-uh. Now give me that needle before you puncture something – like a major artery… And before I tell someone – like Alfred."

Meara smothered a mixture of snort and laugh, drawing Bruce's irritable gaze to her barely-restrained face. Dick grinned at her humor, slipping off his gray Gotham University sweatshirt and tossing it atop his black jacket. Left in a dark green pullover that accentuated his lean muscled form, the young hero patiently waited with arms crossed for his father to concede what appeared to be the ultimate threat.

Heaving a sigh and offering a glare at his eldest son, Bruce roughly offered up the needle and thread he'd been about to use.

"Thank you," Dick replied with punchy slowness, grasping the needle and moving around as Bruce offered up the wounded arm. As the young man started to pull the stitching through, he began talking with Meara in all too calm of a tone, "So, I'm sure Bruce just casually talked about this reopened wound. Saw all the blood, had no reaction. How was that?"

"Freakish," Meara answered bluntly, avoiding the sight of Dick stitching Bruce's skin together. Her eyes found some spot on Dick's shoulder instead.

"Point made," Bruce remarked flatly, offering another glare at his son.

Dick shrugged, "You're the one who did it. Not me."

Complete silence fell in the aftermath of that statement, Meara trying very hard to ignore the sound of the thread pulling through Bruce's skin.

Finally, Dick exhaled a tiny breath and Meara heard the needle drop onto the steel medical tray.

"You're clear," the young man commented with amusement, and Meara accepted this as her cue to not seeing any more surgical moves.

"Thanks," she murmured awkwardly, turning just as Bruce more carefully pulled his shirt back over his head. Eyeing the horrible splotch of crimson still drying on his sleeve, Meara queried with pursed lips, "You have to put that on again?"

Bruce and Dick turned as one unit to stare at Meara, both sets of blue eyes blinking in confusion, but quickly following up with a sparkling glint Meara recognized despite having little experience with it.

"That was _not_ what I meant," she practically scolded the duo, clucking with disapproval and finally preparing to stand from her seat.

Moving to offer his hand for support, Dick laughed lightly while his father repressed a smirk. Looking at the hand outstretched towards her, Meara eventually decided it was worth the trouble to let the issue go and simply get on with the day.

"We're not going anywhere public now," Bruce eventually responded to his guest's previous query with an honest tone. "I'll change after our next stop. Until then, my jacket will hide the stain."

"Nice," Meara remarked under her breath.

"The reason I brought you here is so you know of a safe place," Bruce continued, holding back a small smile as he pulled on his leather jacket with care. "If some situation occurs while you're in the city, and you need to be safe, then you can come here. Plus, if you need help, it has the added benefit of being a likely place you'll find me."

"How do I get down here?" Meara asked, delayed in her confusion.

"I'll show you the code for the storage trailer," Bruce replied immediately.

"Don't worry," Dick added reassuringly. "It's simple to remember."

"I hope so," Meara sighed a bit wearily. "There's so much to remember already. And we've barely gone over anything at all, in the way of safety."

"We'll talk more at our last stop," Bruce assured her. "Would you like to look around here for a moment, or move on?"

"I think I'd better look around now," the brunette hesitantly decided. "If the entrance situation was any indication, I won't want to come here unless I absolutely have to."

"That's a good point," Bruce nodded, and thankfully did not discuss Meara's panicked blackout in any detail.

Dick, on the other hand, looked quite curious as he inquired, "What situation was that?"

"Nothing to worry about," Bruce spoke up first, giving Meara a look of understanding. "Go ahead and glance around, Meara. We'll leave soon for the last place I wanted to show you."

"Okay," the young woman agreed simply, taking slow steps out of range of her two companions and allowing her mind to wander over the various things taking residence in the underground space.

Taking a closer look at the floors, Meara noticed the lines of different platforms that would obviously rise from the ground. One of them, across from and slightly behind the computer station, Meara assumed (with a fairly good basis of circumstantial evidence) was a storage case for another bat suit.

Catching her sea-colored gaze focused on the aforementioned spot, Bruce chuckled with a vague mixture of amusement and weariness. Nevertheless, the caped crusader moved out of Meara's vision and pressed something. A startled gasp still escaped the young woman when the floor began to rise as she had thought it might, and the bat suit came into sight bit by bit.

The suit looked far less threatening and intimidating when hanging on storage hardware rather than Bruce himself, Meara decided with a near-wince. His voice and presence when encased in the black body armor and sweeping cape made it violently real, and certainly impressed the intensity of Batman's crusade on anyone who would watch him battle evil in the shadows of Gotham City.

Being much less intimidated now that the suit stood only on metal rods and posts – the light woven underarmor wrapped into a case behind the legs of the outer armor – Meara dared to step right up to the open storage display and examine the intricate details of the bat suit. The woven fibers seemed to her like a piece of art, in a strange way; the lines crossing and hatching this way or that, with the raised portion of the bat insignia rising from its base armor plate.

Meara looked ever closer at the thick black gauntlets with their delicately meshed design and wide bladelike catches made to grab hold of industrial and natural materials in a fall or a climb.

"How do you wear these?" the young brunette asked in a murmur of curious exploration, moving one inquisitive pointer finger to hover over the ridged wrist section. "They seem so heavy."

"The whole thing is heavy," Dick remarked in a near-mumble, the complaint in his voice leading Meara to suppose he had rolled his eyes. Glancing back at the young man, she noticed he leaned quite casually against the computer worktable, arms crossed and head tilted in a touch of impatience.

"They're not as bad as they look on first impression," Bruce commented with a sly glance at his eldest son which Meara didn't quite understand. "The suit can be a little heavy at times, but I've done as many improvements and changes as I feel comfortable doing without removing the protection the suit serves in the first place."

"Hm," Meara hummed, letting her eyes drop to the boots at the base of the display while her finger finally fell to absently touch the gauntlet.

"Don't!" Bruce's voice suddenly barked out and Meara jumped, bringing her finger down with more force than expected.

Looking to the hero with shock, Meara watched in one agonizingly slow moment as Bruce threw himself straight at her, arms diving smoothly around her waist and pushing the brunette down.

All of Bruce Wayne's solid, heavy weight slammed the petite young woman into the hard flooring in one powerful, breathless wave of motion, leaving the back of her head to tap off his thickly toned arm as it slid beneath her. As stormy eyes began to refocus on the air where Meara had just been standing, she just caught sight of the small, black blades that flew overhead and were heard to embed themselves in something solid with a loud, metallic _thwack_ of sound.

For innumerable long, quiet minutes, all Meara could focus on was the sound of her own short breaths and the deep inhale and exhale of the man half beside and on top of her still figure. Bruce didn't move, the stillness of his larger body keeping Meara in her own frozen state.

When the shock wore off to a mildly manageable level, Meara dared turn her head to see what happened to the rest of the room. Twisting to gaze out across her left arm where it extended perpendicular to her torso, she saw Dick on the ground near the base of the computer terminal opposite, staring up towards where the blades must have embedded themselves.

Gazing absently in Dick's direction without purpose, Meara started when the dark-haired young man eventually turned from the embedded blades and stared directly at her.

"You okay?" he finally asked.

Still moving past her stunned condition and temporarily unable to form words in reply, Meara made herself nod once, a jerky motion she wasn't comfortable with as it batted the side of her head against Bruce's muscled forearm once more. Dick took the reply at face value for the time being. The response did, however, make Bruce sigh deep in his chest before slipping his arm from underneath Meara's head and rolling up into crouched position.

"You need to be more careful," said Bruce, words more irritable than he had ever spoken with the young woman.

"Sorry," was all she could say at first, but that simple word jumpstarted something in Meara's head that made her speak at last. Gulping past her stunned disposition freed up more words to expel in one tangled heap of anxiety and realization, "I'm so sorry. There are always tricks, traps… I just didn't…. Sorry. Sorry."

The words had all but flown from her lips, and in the middle somewhere Meara rushed to sit up and check for the flown blades herself.

"In future, you might want to look and not touch," Bruce suggested in a tone of forcedly-patient command, but Meara could feel the reprimand in his very presence as he saw where her eyes roamed.

On a large, square, concrete post just six feet away from where she had stood, the blades had buried themselves deep. Understanding just where there blades could have been embedded, had Bruce not acted on his always-vigilant instincts and pulled Meara away, the young woman held a trembling hand to her mouth and spewed more senseless words in her disbelief. "Sorry. Oh, God. I didn't mean it. I didn't…I was just curious…"

"Curious?" Bruce scoffed, agitation growing and his eyebrows furrowed. "You could be dead by now if I hadn't pulled you out of the way! What were you thinking? _Were_ you thinking?"

"Don't talk to her like that," Dick reprimanded his adoptive father sharply, brows settling into a stern line. "She didn't know. And you sat there watching while she examined the suit. You should have warned her!"

"Don't start," Bruce snapped in return, tension rising in a wave between the two.

"I will start," Dick argued more calmly than a moment before, obviously trying to keep himself reasonable. Taking a deep breath, he rose to sit on his knees and looked at Bruce unflinchingly. "She was curious, and we both knew she would be. One of us should have warned her. She would never have touched it if we had. I didn't even think about it because I'm used to it, but we should have. And while I know I'm just as guilty of not doing it, you _especially_ should have given Meara the warning."

"Dick, I'm not going to say it again," Bruce half-growled in his growing agitation, and Dick ground his teeth at the patronizing tone. "Common sense should dictate that you don't touch strange objects that are made for combat. Especially that suit, as we all know!"

"Now I remember why I was so frustrated with you before Meara arrived," Dick groused with a scowl on his face, standing from his seated position to grasp his sweatshirt and jacket.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What it _means_ ," Dick emphasized roughly, swinging around to face Bruce with a much stronger glare on his young face, "is that you're so impatient when other people don't have the same knowledge as you do! Everyone isn't like you. Maybe you should learn to live with that fact and stop getting angry with people because of it!"

"You seriously don't—" Bruce tried to begin arguing right back at his adoptive son, but memories invaded Meara's mind with brute force before she could stamp them out.

She couldn't bear to hear anymore; to hear arguments that sounded so much like another lifetime – one she wished would leave her alone for the rest of her days.

Standing in a dizzying whirl of movement that left her unsteady on her feet, Meara barely caught her balance before almost running towards the exit, throwing the first instinctive words over her shoulder in a more unsteady voice than she liked, "I want to leave!"

Voices followed her, both agitated but nonetheless concerned about her sudden emotional exit.

"Meara!" Bruce called after her most audibly, the increased worry in his voice not phasing her need to escape.

The platform rose before either man thought to make his way to it, and Meara closed her eyes against the panic that remained with her. The only thing that brought her out of the detached state was the sound of the platform stopping, and doors opening with a groaning metallic creak.

Throwing her eyes wide open in relief, Meara saw her exit clear as day, the sunlight shining in and creating shadows in the dark container behind her. Without a second thought, the young woman stepped hurriedly into the sunshine, squinting against the strong rays of warmth after squeezing her eyes shut so long.

Waiting outside the trailer sat the shining Rolls Royce Alfred had driven her around in when they went shopping two days prior. Leaning against the pricey black vehicle with his Converse-clad foot tapping the pavement stood Tim Drake, dressed in jeans and a light blue sweatshirt with some type of scientific graphic on the front.

Seeing the thirteen-year-old standing there, looking as normal as anyone could, brought some strange kind of comfort to Meara. Her breath came easier watching the dark-haired youth check his watch with casual impatience. Meara stood taking in the sight, prolonging her comfort for as long as she could. At last, she took another few steps forward, and Tim looked up suddenly and smiled at the brunette.

"Hey, Meara!" he grinned a little more, clear summer eyes sparkling. "How'd you like the dreary old place?"

Face turning stonier than a moment before, Meara replied simply, "It was fine."

"Really?" Tim asked curiously, worry in his young eyes that Meara tried very hard to ignore.

Behind her, Meara could hear the great metal doors closing with the same creaking noise. Anxiety skyrocketed through the young woman at the thought of confronting Bruce after the incident and his reaction to it.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Tim asked more plaintively, his still-boyish face softening as he grasped Meara's forearm to emphasize his query. "You look a little… I don't know… scared, I guess."

"I'm fine, Tim," Meara emphasized again, voice as near to emotionless as she could make it. Before Tim could respond, the young woman slipped around him and into the backseat of the Rolls. There was no way she would ride back with Bruce right then.

Tim climbed a bit cautiously into the back seat with Meara, and Dick followed them into the car soon after with the remnants of a scowl still lingering on his features.

"Dick?" Tim notice that, too, of course, and Meara had to close her eyes against stress.

"Nothing, Tim," the elder brother said with little conviction. "Don't worry about it right now."

"Whatever _that_ means," Tim remarked, and Meara could hear the frown in his tone. "Come on, what happened down there? You two are as tight as a coiled wire."

"Just drop it, Tim!" Dick snapped with sudden heat. Meara's eyes sprung open to stare at him; it wasn't Tim's fault.

"Fine," Tim said roughly, but the look on his face as he turned away was all hurt.

Inhaling deeper than usual, Dick closed his eyes for a lengthy moment until he spoke to his brother again, "Sorry. I just… I don't want to get into it right now."

For the youngest Wayne son, that seemed enough of an explanation, and indeed he turned to stare at Bruce – riding along behind them on his motorcycle – with a suspicious and concerned expression.

"And here I was all for enjoying the peace," Tim sighed as he finally turned back, slouching in his seat.

"Weren't we all?" Dick murmured darkly, crossing his arms and staring out at the passing scenery without really seeing it.

Hearing the tiny remarks from the two brothers and acknowledging Alfred's decided silence on the topic put Meara on edge like she had not been for months on end – notwithstanding Devil Ray kidnapping her.

Little though she had expected to meld right into Gotham life, it was turning out to be a far greater challenge than expected. If this was just facing Bruce Wayne and his chaotic life, Meara feared what would occur once she began involving herself in society at large.

What had she gotten herself into?

There was no answer forthwith, and the young woman faced great difficulty tamping down her nerves for rest of the short ride through town.

At the end of that ride stood a modern high-rise and Meara guessed their location without being told.

"This is the penthouse, isn't it?" she wondered quietly, and Tim just nodded in reply.

Gloom hung over the three of them as Bruce rode into the car park just ahead of the Rolls and they drove through until they reached a tiny lot. The little section of six spaces sat behind a full gate which sported a security system and a 'reserved' sign. Bruce pulled off to the side and stood from the bike, looking just as unhappy as he had been in his city base. The billionaire took a moment at the security controls to open the gate and let Alfred drive through first.

Once the car stopped moving, the butler took a studious glance in the rearview mirror, and Meara tried to offer a lift of her lips, but the attempt failed and felt more uncomfortable than not doing anything at all.

Dick threw open the door without a word and headed to the penthouse entry on swift feet, the car door slamming behind him. Looking out the window on her left as the young man went past, Meara made note of the incredibly tense standoff between Bruce and Dick at the entrance before Dick slipped inside the building with a scowl.

"Gird your loins," Tim muttered sarcastically, sliding towards the door Dick had used.

"Quite so, Master Tim," Alfred sighed tiredly. "Nevertheless, might as well make the best of it. We'll be eating supper here tonight."

"Just what I wanted," Tim sighed as well, turning back to look at Meara when he realized she hadn't moved. "Meara, you coming with?"

"In a moment, please," the young woman delayed quietly, catching Alfred's eye in the rearview once more. Judging the movement of his expression from narrowed eyes to slightly arched brows, Meara figured he understood well enough what she needed.

"Master Tim, go inside with Master Bruce," Alfred told the teenage boy firmly but kindly. "And please tell him and your brother to get their argument out of the way before I come inside. I would like to make supper in relative peace."

"Alfred, do you want him to murder me or what?" Tim question with some small amount of incredulity, but the severe arch of the butler's brow changed his mind. Groaning, the boy added, "Yeah, fine. If you don't see me, just ask for the dead messenger."

"In," Alfred commanded, but Tim only reluctantly got out of the car at long last.

The door shut more quietly behind him than it had his brother, leaving Meara to watch through her window as father and youngest son talked for a moment by the entry. Bruce sent a glare at the front half of the car, but nonetheless followed the order he had been given and headed inside with Tim.

It took a moment for Alfred to speak, but when he did, Meara felt grateful for the objective tone of the elder man's voice as he asked, "Something wrong, Miss Meara?"

Opening her mouth to respond, Meara found the words caught in her throat as they had been many times that day. Clearing her throat, the young woman eventually confessed in a near-whisper, "I don't think I can do this, Alfred."

"Do what, Miss Meara?" he inquired, no worry in his voice; just a seed of curious confusion.

"Live this life," the young woman answered more stoically than before. "Be this person. I'm not… made for this."

"And what, exactly, are you not made for?" Alfred wondered, still curious and unworried.

"For… _all_ of this," Meara blurted only a little louder than before, "This wealth and power, this chaos… the never-ending cavalcade of surprises and danger and stepping on people's toes… I don't understand high society or big business. I've never lived in a mansion or a penthouse, or even walked inside a place like Wayne Enterprises. I'm living with people who should be fictional and yet aren't, people I know so much about and yet don't know at all. I've never handled people so damaged that they sometimes don't understand someone _else's_ damage."

Meara was forced to stop and draw a breath, but combating her anxiety only came with more words, "Until now, it's all seemed like fun; strange, but fun. Living in the world I always loved reading about and watching, like I could escape everything I hated, everything that scared me… But it's not a game. It's not all some fun road trip. I couldn't even keep myself out of danger in one of the safest places in the city. My own curiosity nearly killed me! I need to just leave and live the most normal life possible. I don't have the kind of wisdom and experience to survive in a life like this. I… I can't do this! I _can't_ do it, Alfred!"

At last expressing everything that Bruce's tour had revealed to her, finally coalescing into the revelation those flying black blades gave her, Meara sucked in a shaky breath and let it go in one swift gust that left her feeling weaker.

Alfred remained silent for so long that Meara wondered if he even knew what to say to her now.

The older man inhaled slowly, and the question he asked only made Meara more certain of his speechlessness, "Would you be a kind soul, Miss, and please explain what exactly transpired in Master Wayne's city base of operation?"

Taking a deep breath, Meara tried to calm herself, but failed at the endeavor even before she exhaled. Huffing with irritation, the brunette slowly began to explain, "When we arrived in that trailer, the blackness scared me out of my mind. I collapsed, but Bruce caught me and must have carried me into the base. After I came to, we talked a moment and then I noticed the blood on his arm. He said he'd reopened the wound when he caught me. Dick came in and convinced Bruce to let him do the stitching, then Bruce told me to look around. I got fascinated by the bat suit and I was looking it over when Bruce yelled out. He dove for me, dragged me to the floor, and something flew overhead. I was… stunned. I didn't really know how to react."

"And this 'something' that flew overhead," Alfred repeated when Meara did not continue, "…presumably it was something which had been dislodged from the suit?"

"Yes," Meara answered simply before finishing the story tiredly, "Dick asked if I was okay, but Bruce was so upset… He told me to be more careful, to not touch things like that. And then I was babbling about being curious and he just got angry. Said I could have been killed and asked if I was even thinking at the time. Dick started arguing with him about it, that they should have warned me. I couldn't listen to it anymore. It was so familiar. I—I always argued with my—my foster father. It was horrible and I hated it, but it always, always happened. I didn't want to remember. I still don't want to… I'm not strong enough to be here."

Whatever hope Bruce had infused in Meara that morning, the events of the afternoon had killed it in a single stroke of trouble.

A long pause stole over the car until Alfred broke the unearthly quiet with a remarkably gentle voice, "Well, of course you're not made for this life."

The immediate agreement forced Meara's head up to stare at the butler resignedly, but he chuckled softly at the reaction. "No one is ever _made_ for this. They grow into it, they mold it for themselves. Because they believe in something more than just making it day-by-day."

Confusion spread across Meara's features, the words only compounding her chaotic emotions.

"Miss Meara, I should like to say something else. Something I hope will give you some measure of peace – or at least understanding," Alfred said just as gently, taking another breath before he went on, "I don't know what happened in your old life, your old world. I don't know how you've come to be who you are, or indeed who that complete person is underneath it all. What I _do_ know is that when confronted with a strange land, dangerous killers, almost certain death, and a broken band of men who dare to call each other family, you are strong enough to keep your sanity and stand up on your own two feet. You _can_ do this… You have the same ability to believe and to grow, and to mold this life for yourself."

Exhaling with the same sadness that clouded her initial admission, Meara just shook her head. "I can't see it, Alfred. You're wonderful to try and lift me up this way, and I know you really believe what you've told me, but I just can't see it. I can't feel it stirring at the edges. I don't think I ever will. That person, that strength, is someone I can't even recognize."

"Then there's only one other thing I can think to say, Miss Meara," Alfred sighed just as sadly. "Strength or not, I like you. And I would like to know you better."

Having said his piece, Alfred exited the driver's door with grace only a butler could possess, and came to open Meara's door just behind it. "Please join us for supper, Miss. No matter what future you choose to make for yourself, I believe you'll need sustenance to get to it."

A half-smile, tiny but true, lit Meara's face. "All right, Alfred."

"Wonderful," he smiled back lightly, offering a hand to help the young woman out of the vehicle.

When they finally entered what appeared to be a hallway, Alfred having showed Meara how to get past the security system, they could see Bruce, Dick, and Tim engaged in the last vestiges of a heated argument in the main room. All three of them glared as they talked at each other, and Dick's fists were clenched.

"Alfred," Meara whispered up at the butler, tugging on his sleeve uneasily. " _Please_ let me help with supper."

Choking back what appeared to be a laugh, Alfred uttered through vaguely trembling lips, "In this circumstance, Miss, I fully accept your offer. Allow me to take your jacket and accessories."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Meara removed her leather jacket and gloves, her purse, and her black hat to hand over to Alfred. It didn't take long for her things to be put away in the hall closet and Alfred soon led Meara through the hallway, past the main room, and in a perimeter of the penthouse which brought them around to the gleaming kitchen.

"Ah, here we are," Alfred sighed with some relief, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. "I'm making this meal here, so you can go ahead and look at it. See what we're up against."

"With you cooking, Alfred?" Meara shook her head and sighed with some amusement. "In that case, I doubt we're up against much of anything."

"Thank you for your confidence," the butler chuckled, already moving to grab ingredients and utensils while Meara looked over the details of honey garlic chicken and roasted red potatoes, asparagus, zucchini, and squash.

"This looks very good," Meara commented interestedly, trying her best to let her fear fade enough that no one else would feel downed along with her. Alfred had done his best to reassure her, and she didn't want to make him feel the opposite of hope when his surrogate son and grandsons were already feeling dark and argumentative.

"I hope to make things different as often as possible," the white-haired butler remarked. "Not that life isn't fast-paced enough around here, mind you."

Holding back a little smile, Meara asked, "What can I do, Alfred?"

"Why don't you wash and slice the vegetables?" he suggested in return. "You seem to be experienced with it, considering your breakfast endeavor the other morning."

"I've gotten better with it over the last couple of years," the brunette shrugged. "It's far more budget-conscious to cook all your own meals, but it does get boring. Like you said, you try to mix it up. I make things look different, even if they're the same thing I had the night before."

"Well, I've already laid out the vegetables and the cutting board over by that left sink. And I would welcome a different outlook on the styles of vegetable slicing," Alfred offered genuinely, turning to work on his chicken.

"That I can do," Meara let her smile appear, moving to the intended sink and rolling up her sleeves.

There was a rhythm to slicing and dicing foods, Meara had always found, and she delved deep into her acquired rhythm to make something different from the typical cubed chunks from pre-packaged grocery stores. Halves and half-moons and angled cuts made everything look fascinating and yet still edible.

Engrossed as she was in her task, Meara paid little attention to anything else, so it came as no surprise that she _was_ surprised by a sudden call in the kitchen.

"We need to talk," Bruce's hard voice sounded loudly in the kitchen as the man himself appeared in the doorway, but Meara focused none of her attention on his entrance. The loud volume of his voice forced her to pop up with a start and slice the knife along her left pointer finger.

Meara cried aloud in acute pain as the blade fairly burned through her skin, the blood already sliding out of her wound in a rich crimson as she stumbled back a step from the counter. She was humiliated by the panic in her voice as she called out, "Alfred?!"

"What did you do now?" Bruce sighed irritably as he noticed her bleeding hand, whatever slight warmth he had generated since meeting Meara just disappearing into thin air. The young woman simply didn't know what happened to change that, even when considering her thoughtless curiosity in the city base.

"If you were paying attention to your surroundings, that wouldn't have happened," was his remarkably callous response.

Meara was in just enough pain to not care what came out of her mouth next, tears already sliding from beneath her eyelids as she tried to breathe through the throbbing pain in her finger. "Will you stop it! Just leave me alone!"

Not bothering to look at the man she had found decently congenial just several hours earlier, Meara accepted Alfred's gentle pull on her shoulders and walked forward at his urging, wincing when he padded a towel beneath her fiercely bleeding finger.

"Come on now, Miss Meara," Alfred assured her calmly. "Everything will be all right. Master Dick will fix you up. Perhaps a couple of stitches, but you'll be good as new before you know it."

"I'm sorry," Meara sniffed with sudden shame, half cradling her hand.

"You don't need to be," Dick's voice sounded near her, a mixture of anger and understanding as he set something down on a solid surface. "It's an accident. You're human."

Biting her lip, Meara couldn't think of anything to say and simply let Dick now pull her from Alfred's grasp and settle her very gently into a chair with her arm stretched across a tabletop. "I have to clean it, Meara, so grit your teeth. This isn't going to feel any better than slicing it open."

Sure enough, cleaning out the wound burned Meara's injury in painful waves, bringing more than one startled gasp of pain from her lips in only the first few seconds.

"What would you be doing if you were in your old life?" Tim asked out of the blue, and Meara had a hard time focusing on his inquiry, let alone understanding it, while Dick continued a painstakingly slow and careful cleansing.

The confusion must have shown, even with Meara's eyes closed, because Dick clarified, "He means if you cut yourself at home. What would have happened?"

Breathing through another swab, Meara shakily answered, "Um… I… hospital. She would have… She um… would have panicked. Called 911… And she'd scream every – detail of our house… at them, but not the address… Uh… ah, they'd have to ask for it, and she'd calm down… all of sudden. Then she'd be at the hospital bossing the doctors… because she'd be w-worried about me."

"Sounds like a mom, all right," Dick chuckled a bit. "Can't say mine would be that way, but then we grew up with injuries all the time. My parents grew up getting bumped and scraped and breaking bones. Just part of being an acrobat and practicing. I did the same. They'd probably look at my bleeding finger and say _'Well, we don't know how to fix it. Go see Sonny about it.'_ Sonny was our doctor, traveled with the circus. Not an M.D. by any standards, but he could do the basics. And if he didn't know, he'd get you to someone who did."

Meara inhaled sharply as her caretaker swiped the wound one last time.

"It's not as deep as it seemed," Dick finally said comfortingly, "and you won't need much stitching. Matter of fact, we can use the liquid stitches for it. They're don't hurt nearly the way actually pulling a needle through your skin would."

"If I'd cut my finger like that," Tim added his own story, wistful and nostalgic, "my parents would have freaked just like yours, Meara. My dad was really the worrywart, though. Always asked a bunch of questions to cover up how scared he was."

A shaky laugh escaped the young woman in question. Dick still had to place the liquid stitches, it still hurt, and Meara was still crying, but it didn't seem quite as frightening when she could listen to them talk.

Just outside the kitchen opening, across the way from the three young people, Bruce and Alfred stood in a temperate discussion just shy of a heated argument.

"Is this how you treat a guest in your home, Master Wayne?" Alfred reprimanded the billionaire fiercely. "That poor girl just sliced her finger and you stand there reproaching her because _you_ shouted. And getting angry with her because she didn't know the release for those blades was on the wrist of your gauntlet!"

"Alfred, don't start," Bruce groaned, but his voice was hard. "She should have known better than to touch the suit. It's common sense!"

"It's an instinct, sir!" Alfred disagreed. "That girl shouldn't have to be a soldier just to reside under your roof!"

"I'm not asking her to be a soldier," Bruce interrupted irritably. "Just to pay attention and use her head! She was doing just fine until she allowed her curiosity to get the better of her."

"Doing just fine—" Alfred spoke incredulously, but cut himself off with disgust. "You were _testing_ her?"

"She needs to become used to the chaotic quality of her new existence," Bruce insisted stubbornly. "There are difficult things she _will_ face while she's involved in my life, it can't be avoided. And she can't be so reckless or thoughtlessly curious if she's going to handle them successfully. What better place to test that than under my supervision?"

"That's preposterous!" Alfred interjected angrily, going on swiftly as Bruce moved to speak again, "No! You have said enough, Master Wayne. I won't hear of this any further. If you keep up this behavior, I will be on her side without any doubt. Do you understand?"

"You're only acting like this because she's a woman, and a young one at that," Bruce disagreed too calmly. "When Dick and Tim came into our lives, you didn't act anything like this. You let them face the danger and the fear."

"They needed what you gave to them," Alfred told him in the same tone he used whenever he imparted wisdom Bruce didn't especially want to hear. "Your sons, and even Miss Barbara, needed whatever this wild, dangerous life brought to them and they chose that. It gave them new life, new purpose."

"But _you_ ," Alfred emphasized strenuously, jabbing a finger in Bruce's direction, "and only you, brought this young woman here. You brought her into our personal world whether she would actually have chosen it or not, and you have a responsibility to her now. Not just a responsibility to give her a new life, but to protect her, even from _your_ life. Just because she's read about us, or what you do with your nights, it doesn't mean she knows everything about this world or should ever have to. And she's not one of your sidekicks, trained and taught the instincts you have gained yourself. Give her leeway to learn and grow… and to be her own person. However untrained, or however lacking in instinct, that person might turn out to be."

Sensing the closed mouth of his employer and once-ward, Alfred sighed briefly, disappointed, and turned to leave the room.

Hesitating just in the wide, open threshold of the space as he caught sight of Meara's tear-stained face and blood-stained hands once more, the butler decided upon one more intervention.

"Stop and think before you react to her lack of experience, Master Wayne," Alfred impressed upon the younger man more gently, a sadness in his voice Bruce could not ignore. "Meara Nolan is still a very frightened girl, trying to come to terms with losing her entire world. Gaining this world she used to idolize does not equal a fair trade…. only another moment where she is once again forced to leave a part of herself behind."

Leaving Bruce to his silence and brooding, Alfred headed back in the kitchen without another word.

* * *


	7. Chapter 6: Conflicted

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
You know, sometimes Bruce reminds me of an angsty teenager still. When you read this chapter, you'll kind of see what I mean. ;)

> **Chapter 6: Conflicted**

Clinking forks and knives dented the otherwise silent air inside Bruce Wayne's penthouse as four individuals sat around the dining table attempting to eat. Alfred moved between kitchen and dining room with regular frequency, not daring to stay long in either place. The kitchen so as not to make his four diners wonder at his absence too long, and the dining room because the tension drove him to absolute distraction.

Shuffling food around a plate became the fad of the moment, Meara and all three Wayne men equally utilizing the gesture as they sat in gruff distance from each other. Not one of them would look up from their plate, four sets of eyes in varying shades of blue attached to barely dwindling meals that held no interest, no matter how appetizingly they had been made.

Bruce seemed the coldest he had been in quite some time, Alfred noted worrisomely, and Dick had not been so deeply angry in years. Tim looked to be some mixture of the two, but mostly just upset his family had gone so far downhill in less than a day. And Meara… Alfred suppressed a shudder at the blank, shrunken form practically huddled into the large, heavy chair across the table from Bruce.

In the wake of Meara's injury in the kitchen, Alfred half-expected this appearance. After seeing the way Dick and Tim had taken the young woman under their wings and eased her into a relatively normal conversation (all things considered), the butler had felt reassured no such vision would come to pass.

Yet there the brunette sat at the dining table, appearing to him as a wraith of the witty, determined twenty-one-year-old he met in the bat cave three days prior.

If Bruce could not see the change, or refused to accept its validity, Alfred stood under no illusion that the image would ever go away. Whatever the tension and disagreement that might stand between the master of Wayne manor and his new charge, Meara relied on the man in a way they had not anticipated; his opinion, his support, his knowledge… The heavy trust this young woman placed in Bruce Wayne and Batman could fill an ocean and still bleed over, as far as Alfred was concerned.

And he _was_ concerned. Truly and deeply concerned for anyone who so heavily relied on his surrogate son for their own well-being and stability.

Sighing as he finally set about storing the multitude of leftovers from supper, Alfred tried to imagine something that might ease that dependency, but it was a remarkably difficult effort. On the one hand, he had seen the change this young person brought into the manor, no matter how slow that change began affecting the dysfunctional group they had become. On the other hand, the butler could now see it might very well destroy Meara from the inside out.

Alfred wondered if she had not been correct when she said she could not do this. As much as he wished to deny that opinion, to prove to the girl she was as strong as any of them (and he knew she was), perhaps Meara was too far gone in her fears and her own dysfunctional past to really survive here.

Shaking the thoughts away roughly, Alfred hurriedly completed the task he had assigned himself and moved back to the dining room to see the state of his four… well, children, really.

Not much changed since he left room a few minutes earlier, except that only Tim continued his pretense of eating anything. Chocking it up to his youthful need for nourishment, Alfred moved to begin collecting the used dishes and silverware from each of the other three. Dick at least attempted to help him, showing a sign of interest and life Alfred could have hugged him for. Catching the young man's concerned gaze at their newest houseguest, the butler suspected he knew why that life returned.

"Tim, you ready to head out?" Dick offered to his brother, and Alfred suppressed a smile at the increasingly calm warmth in the nineteen-year-old's voice. Dick Grayson would make a fine parent one day, the butler decided.

"Yeah, sure," Tim responded in kind, his young face lit with a bit of the rich hope that had gone missing that afternoon. "Thanks, Alfred."

Chuckling at the boy's sudden politeness, Alfred merely replied, "My honor, Master Tim."

"We'll be at the base," Dick offered tightly to his adoptive father, slight compromise clear in his steady voice.

Bruce grunted as he usually did, leaving Alfred to withhold an exasperated sigh as he retrieved the thirty-five-year-old's dinner plate. Dick rolled his eyes and walked away, Tim rapidly following suit and eyeing his father figure in frustration.

The moment the door closed, Alfred moved to Tim's place setting and sent sideways glances at both of his silent charges in consternation.

At wits end while he finally cleared away Meara's place setting as well, Alfred eventually spoke perfunctorily, "Miss Meara, I will show you to your room now, if you are not averse."

No response forthcoming, Alfred turned to look at the young woman, only to find her staring emptily at the surface of the dining table.

"Miss Meara?" he tried a little louder, succeeding in making the brunette jump slightly and bringing her gaze up to his.

Staring into those dark, oceanic eyes felt as though Alfred were looking into an abyss of misery. Pain, confusion, helplessness, sadness...

Alfred ignored the sharp inhale across the table and shivered slightly at the familiar expression in Meara's eyes. The butler set down his tray with a loud clank, and the subsequent clinking and jingling of upset china and silver.

"Come with me, Miss Meara," Alfred said softly, holding out his hand to the young woman. "You should be resting. That finger must hurt a great deal and you have had a very difficult day."

Wordlessly, Meara offered up her right hand to Alfred's left, blatantly favoring her left hand with its pink-tinted bandaging. Helping the girl up from her seat, the older man led her gently and patiently to the room his employer had selected. At least this time he approved of the room, even if the reason behind choosing it still rankled immensely. Regardless, the butler knew Meara could easily be taken from their watch if they did not give some leeway to the Justice League's worries.

Alfred pushed that thought away and continued aiding the young woman in his care, ensuring she knew the way to her room from the main area.

While he had his doubts about Meara's ability to dress capably with her injured finger, Alfred would not disrespect her by attempting to assist. However, he did make an effort to choose a set of pajamas that would be easier to pull on and off by oneself without the use of two fully-functioning hands.

Meara did well enough by the time he returned, despite an askew button-job which Alfred nicely ignored in favor of checking the bandages and pulling down the covers of the bed.

"In you get, Miss," Alfred insisted, shooing the brunette under the covers and pulling them over her as she settled uncomfortably against the pillows. "I'll have to be at the bunker while the others are out on patrol, but should you need anything, simply call the number in the phone here. Master Wayne already input the number for you."

A simple nod was the only response he received, leaving the butler to sigh quietly.

"Good night, Alfred," Meara murmured almost voicelessly as Alfred turned to leave. Any hope the man felt over her actually responding to him became leveled out by the toneless manner in which the young woman spoke.

"Good night, Miss," the butler murmured in response, walking away with low hopes for the future.

Bruce had left by the time Alfred returned to the front of the penthouse, leaving the older man to pick up his things and head out to the Rolls Royce, prepared for a very long night of patrol and dark thoughts.

If thoughts were dark then, each of the Wayne men's thoughts were absolutely black by the time patrol ended in the wee hours. Arguments between every fight, every arrest, every crime stopped… it was enough to drive anybody crazy, and Bruce Wayne was no exception.

Halfway through the night, he had just about enough of the accusations and anger from his sons, and finally took to icy silence as the last two rounds of patrol passed by. Nothing would placate either of them anyway, so what was the point of arguing? No point, of course, Bruce scowled behind the mask of Batman.

Fortunately for him, the police had remained out in good force after the first few crimes that night, and there was little else to be done without blunt police interaction Batman did not need.

"Close up shop," he grunted roughly into the comm at his ear, shutting the device off with atypical violence as he swung from the top of Iceberg Lounge and over to the statues sitting just across the way.

Making his way back to the base all too slowly for his usual speed, Batman wondered when he had become a villain for the very same training Dick, Tim, and Barbara had undergone when joining his crusade. Not that Meara would be joining their team, of course. He had not yet entertained that possibility, no matter how much the young woman seemed to fit into their mold of orphaned, emotionally conflicted youths. All the same, Meara had to face their lifestyle head-on and come out the other side if she was to make it through her new life in Gotham – or, indeed, the world of superheroes in general.

Bruce was only giving her the growth she needed to survive. Why were they so adamantly against that? No answer appeared to him, and the hero scowled as he took the last swing to the bike waiting in the alley not far from his city bunker.

The two Robins had already showered and made the transition to civilian clothes, prepared to leave when Batman rumbled off the platform and parked the bike off to the far side. Neither youth waited for their father to speak before rushing onto the platform themselves and rising up and up to the ground level without a backward glance.

"Excited to escape, aren't they?" Batman's gruff voice hit a sore spot in the cool silence left behind.

Alfred sighed loudly, his agitation clear enough to give the hero pause as he removed his cowl.

"You never learn, do you?" the butler remarked tiredly, turning in the office chair to face the billionaire peeling off layers of weighted but flexible armor. "Do you know what Meara told me in the car, before we came in to make supper?"

"I can't imagine, Alfred," Bruce rolled his eyes and turned to restore his armor to its place on the display unit piece by piece. "Maybe some complaint about—"

" _I don't think I can do this_ ," Alfred quoted the young woman, ruthlessly cutting across the younger man, who turned with a start, a piece of armor still waiting in his hand. "That's what she told me. She said she can't live this life. Meara truly believes she is not strong enough to survive… Most people take years – or even a lifetime – to reach such a belief. Imagine, Master Wayne, to live through a single afternoon and come to such a terrible conclusion about oneself. Is that normal, sir?"

"Meara is no longer normal, Alfred," Bruce returned, but his subdued voice filled the butler with some fresh dab of hope he could not suppress.

"No, she is certainly not," Alfred agreed mildly. "Compared to most people, Meara can no longer be considered normal. However, in reality, everyone has their own version of normalcy, Master Bruce. Yours is to pose as businessman during the day and jump off rooftops dressed like a bat by night. Meara Nolan has yet to find her version of normalcy. I'm sure you believe your 'testing' is helping her gain that, but all you're doing is forcing your own version of normal onto her."

"She needs it to feel normal, Alfred," Bruce scoffed loudly, turning to face his butler with a tight expression. "This lifestyle _has_ to feel normal for her to survive here."

Alfred exhaled in utter weariness, slumping as he normally eschewed doing. "I give up, sir. I don't know how to stop you. And God knows if I can't, no one else is going to either."

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but the sight of Alfred's tired face stopped him. It was only that face which stopped the billionaire from preventing his butler's weary trek to the platform.

"I'll join Masters Dick and Tim at the manor, sir," Alfred commented with little inflection as the platform rose. "Please inform Miss Meara I will return in the morning."

Bruce didn't respond, but turned to continue putting his armor back in the display. For a moment he found Alfred's actions in leaving Meara alone for the evening strange, but then he realized Alfred expected him to return to the penthouse and watch over the young woman.

Closing his eyes in attempted patience, Bruce reluctantly let the issue go and headed for a shower. The rush of water gave him no fresh insight in how to explain this situation to his family and houseguest, leaving the vigilante to simply pull on a black t-shirt and jeans, then return to the penthouse as his butler expected.

The rocketing sound of his silver and orange motorcycle made comparatively little noise when he recalled his 'other bike' yet Bruce still felt noisy as he pulled into the now-empty parking space where Alfred had earlier left the Rolls. Cursing the older man for making him feel guilty, even a tiny bit, Bruce roughly flung himself away from the motorcycle and stalked inside the penthouse. Keys and jacket nevertheless made their way safely into the appropriate storage areas as Bruce made his way into the main living area.

He stopped on a dime as he sensed the other presence in the living area, head snapping towards the grandiose wall of windows looking out onto the city.

Meara Nolan seemed more stone than flesh, her body held at such an alarmingly ramrod stiff posture that Bruce felt an unexpectedly powerful concern for her health after being slammed to the ground earlier that day.

The brunette spoke not a word, if she even knew he was there. Wondering just how attentive she really was, Bruce made his way over to her inert form.

The petite young woman appeared oblivious and made no move to face her host, but Bruce could see the increased tension between Meara's shoulder blades. Not as oblivious as he had assumed, then.

"I saw you in the glass," Meara informed him out of the blue, her voice muted but solid in the quiet atmosphere of the penthouse. "And I heard you toss your keys in the rack by the doorway."

Startled by the unexpected attention to detail, Bruce merely raised an eyebrow at the clogged sound to the young woman's voice. Moving to her side, the billionaire tentatively reached out a hand to touch the shoulder nearest him and slowly turned the cross-armed brunette to face him.

Tears making their slow way down Meara's young face were not what Bruce expected to find, but clearly these were not the first tears she had cried in the last few minutes. Bloodshot eyes and pink skin beneath indicated that all too clearly.

In spite of the comments over the billionaire's presence, Meara said nothing else for a number of minutes, time passing in unending slowness while Bruce waited for her tears to slow. The tall man did entertain some modicum of guilt for Meara's injury and her pain; it made him feel the distinct need to explain himself to her and possibly ease some of the misunderstanding caught up between them. But he couldn't really discuss the situation if his companion refused to speak, now could he?

On a chance look at Meara's slender hands, Bruce found a tiny white packet in her clutch, the familiar shape reminding him once again of how her sliced finger must pain her. However, Meara seemed not to care, if the unused painkillers in her hands were any indication.

Considering the issue with slightly more objective eyes, Bruce nodded once to himself and led his charge to the sofa further behind them, speaking up in neutral conversation as he had done Meara's first night in the Caligo room, "I guess you don't really like taking painkillers. Understandable to feel that way, you know. I hate taking them myself. The idea of my focus and vision slurred with drugs doesn't endear me to taking pills and medicines overmuch. Or even the idea of a foreign agent in my body at all... That bothers me more, I think."

Bruce wasn't entirely sure what else he said in the meandering, one-sided discussion, allowing words to flow from him without ceasing, and watching as Meara's body released its tension by tiny measures. Eventually, the words petered out completely and Meara sat as relaxed as her injured body could be under the circumstances.

"The incident in the bunker was… unfortunate," Bruce started again, quiet and pensive as he fought for the proper words to explain himself without sounding like a complete and total monster.

"I should have known I wasn't fit for this world," Meara whispered, voice rich with sorrow.

"You could be," Bruce countered more earnestly, leaning forward. "None of you really understand why I did what I did, but that's why. The reason is to help you _be_ fit for this."

"But I'm just not cut—" Meara started, but as abruptly as that she stopped and stilled the fidgeting of her hands. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, the young woman pulled her face up from the floor beneath her bare feet and turned her head up to face Bruce directly. Stormy eyes burrowed into the depths of Bruce's soul as he watched the understanding flutter and flicker behind the veil of Meara's gaze. A burst of blue flame, and then Meara's face tightened as sternly as a taut winch hoisting a car.

"You planned it," the young woman breathed, tensed against the rages of a long-anticipated storm. "You set me up."

"That kind of event is normal every day of my strange life," Bruce responded calmly, assuming an unaffected posture in response to the blank understanding of Meara's expression. "If you're going to live in my world, you need to face that and move through it."

Dead silence passed between the two of them, Meara's face all too carefully neutral as the minutes passed by with agonizing slowness. Bruce wondered what ran through the brunette's young, naïve mind as she stared at him so keenly, but the businessman's ice blue eyes remained just as cautiously neutral as her deep stormy blue.

When the atmosphere seemed fit to implode from the growing tension and silence, Meara moved but barely, Bruce not truly taking the motion into account.

The billionaire regretted not taking more notice when Meara's right hand came whistling through the air and slammed against the left side of his face, impacting with all of the young woman's none-too-gentle strength. Head flung back far enough to give him a mild case of whiplash, Bruce inadvertently let out a sound somewhere between a disbelieving scoff and a startled gasp as the stinging sensation on his cheek made itself boldly known.

Meara stood in one swift motion, stalking out of the living area and disappearing around the far hall corner in a rather impressively firm stride Bruce had never expected from the petite young woman. Shaking himself back to full awareness with some effort, the handsome man stood just as quickly and hurried after his furious charge. Finally catching up to the brunette in the hall outside her guest room, Bruce grasped her good arm and pulled her to a stop.

"You have to feel like this is normal if you're ever going to live through it without a panic attack every five seconds!" he determinedly spoke again, trying to make her understand his reasoning.

"The only things that have been causing panic attacks since my arrival are my past and your so-called tests!" Meara retorted loudly, swinging around to glare at the billionaire without a hint of fear or submission, roughly yanking her arm out of his firm grip. "Remembering Devil Ray's attack didn't cause one. Seeing the bat cave for the first time didn't cause one. Meeting the Justice League didn't cause one!"

Bruce looked taken aback, staring at the young woman in surprise for her outburst, but his surprise morphed into sudden anger at her complete unwillingness to see his side of things.

"I trusted you!" Meara half-shouted at Gotham's hero before he could speak again, good hand clenched into a fist at her right side. "I trusted you and–"

"And what?" Bruce cut in harshly, glaring himself now. "You expected you could trust me to be your best buddy? To coddle you through this experience?"

"No, I didn't," Meara answered with adverse calm, growing quiet in the face of Bruce's equally emotional outburst. Stormy orbs bored into the man's face as the young woman continued with incredible quiet, "I trusted you to treat me like a human being worthy of being given free choice…not to treat me with as little respect as some punk with a gun."

Struck mute by the phrase and recoiling as though slapped in the face for the second time, Bruce Wayne had no reply for his guest.

Meara turned away from his shock with a hurt expression that made the Wayne heir wince with the first understanding he had felt all day and night. The first understanding he had felt in years, really.

This young woman was different.

Different from Dick, different from Tim, and much, much different from Bruce himself.

All of them had lived through the same pain of loss and isolation in their youths. The one difference was that Meara did not have the outlet of the night, of battling the evil which had killed someone she loved. This girl had to live with her grief and rage by retreating into a stereotype of normalcy – whether she was ready or not. Meara had been quite right that afternoon; she was not strong like Bruce was. What Meara failed to realize was that her return to normalcy despite her horrific experiences was a strength all its own.

Sighing with the deepest frustration he had felt all night, Bruce swept a hand through his now-mussed black hair and walked into the guest room with an unexpected intention.

"Meara," the billionaire spoke first, eyeing the young woman where she huddled on the bed, her injured hand held away from herself as though it would take away the pain she felt. Sighing again, this time much more sadly. "Meara, I'm… I was… unfair."

The words stumbling from his lips were not what he truly wanted or needed to say, but Bruce had spent too many years hardened against the softer affections of humanity to make an allowance at the present time. Standing beside the bed without inspiration just killed him; nonetheless, he had to speak.

"It's just…" Bruce tried very hard to keep on, but the words simply wouldn't come to him clearly. "You're so… such a different kind of person… from my sons, I mean. Even from Barbara Gordon, actually. That difference is hard for me to… to live with. It makes it more of a challenge to keep you safe from harm. Instead… I hoped I could give you the tools to keep yourself safe, whether I could do so myself or not."

Words failed the billionaire entirely as he trailed off, but Meara at least looked up at him with shuttered eyes as he sputtered for the first time in a long while.

"I apologize," Bruce finally settled on, the words dry and strange on his tongue.

Meara blinked twice in slow succession, something flickering once again behind her eyes. When it cleared, Bruce had to catch his breath at the depth of understanding and compassion housed therein.

"Please, don't do it again," Meara pleaded softly, her gentle voice stinging as much as any angry shout could have.

"I won't," Bruce said succinctly. "I promise you."

Another unusual phrase for the vigilante, the words altogether foreign after so many years of disuse, but Meara took it like a beautiful lullaby easing a newborn infant to sleep. "Thank you."

Nodding his acceptance, Bruce stood back from the bed out of some strange sense of respect he did not fully understand.

"Are you hungry?" he found himself asking out of the blue, ducking hands into his pockets. "You didn't eat dinner, I know. Too much on your plate – proverbially and literally."

Meara opened her mouth to answer, sitting up in bed as she did so, but her stomach began growling before the words could escape her. Huffing embarrasedly, the brunette glanced away from her host.

"I believe that would be a yes," the billionaire actually chuckled, offering a hand from his pocket. "Come on. I'll make us something."

"I can cook for myself, Bruce, you know that," Meara responded, rolling her eyes mildly. The action didn't carry nearly as much sarcasm as it usually did, the billionaire noticed keenly.

"Consider it a small form of repayment," Bruce remarked dryly, tilting his head amusedly. "It's the least I can do for you right now."

"All right," Meara smiled vaguely, smoothly accepting the outstretched hand and rising from the bed with Bruce's help.

The two walked in remarkably companionable silence through the halls of the penthouse and back to the kitchen that had earlier been so fraught with anger and tension. Bruce slipped over to the refrigerator with ease born of experience and looked back at Meara inquiringly as he opened the door.

"Just make some leftovers," she shook her head humorously. "I see no sense in wasting all of them after all that went into making them in the first place."

Bruce smothered a snort with admirable grace, retrieving the leftover supper Alfred had so carefully stored. Meara watched with subdued interest as her host worked at preparing two plates. Bruce felt her eyes on his back the entire time he prepared their meal, yet it didn't feel awkward or intrusive.

"Is your finger hurting you?" the dark-haired man asked with genuine concern, eyeing the way the young woman fidgeted with the injured left hand.

"It feels pretty rough, I guess," Meara sighed uncomfortably, plainly holding back how strongly it bothered her. "I just wish it would stop throbbing for a little while."

"Take the painkillers with your meal," Bruce insisted with all the kindness he recalled showing on Meara's second night at the manor. "They won't make you drowsy, I swear to you. They're about the only ones I'm willing to take anymore."

"I suppose I will, then," Meara agreed tentatively, biting her lip as she considered the packet in her hand. "Alfred gave them to me before he left and I've been debating taking them ever since then."

"What is it about taking them that bothers you?"

"Personal ethics," Meara shrugged casually, but Bruce wasn't entirely convinced by that easy answer.

Allowing time to pass in quiet reprieve while he set the kitchen table with their impromptu morning meal, Bruce only ended the pause of discussion once they both settled into the table together and his curiosity could wait no longer.

"Did you have a drug problem once upon a time?" Bruce asked bluntly, throwing caution to the wind.

Meara stiffened abruptly, her entire body wired and taut against the blatant question. For a long moment, Bruce considered he might have gone too far in asking.

But in a hard voice, Meara finally answered, "No."

Brief, simple… honest.

Totally honest. Bruce felt certain now that Meara never had a drug problem. But someone close to her must have had one, and the toll it took on her was more than she had been able to handle.

Bruce took a moment to consider the collection of things he had learned about Meara Nolan since saving her life in Detroit, adding this new tidbit to the mix with a disheartening feeling. Just how much had this young woman seen and experienced before ever arriving on his doorstep? The answer grew every time he asked the question, yet he never seemed able to stop asking it of himself.

"Well, then you won't have any issues taking those painkillers," Bruce concluded casually after a while, returning to his own plate of food and ignoring the piercing look Meara gave him across the table.

Their meal continued in silent awkwardness for a long while, until both had mostly cleared their plates of the leftovers. Bruce sat back contemplatively from the crumbs left on his plate, gazing at Meara's pensive form for some time; the brunette still hadn't taken the painkillers Alfred left her, and Bruce feared his own comments on the subject might have prevented her from lowering her prideful defenses enough to use common sense.

"Let me see your finger," he eventually decided to say, bringing the young woman's rich eyes up to his in surprise. "It is partially my fault, anyway. I may as well check on it now that it's been a few hours."

"If you insist," Meara hesitated, but held out her left hand for him to take. Removing the bandages wasn't very comfortable for the young woman, but Bruce tried to keep up a steady stream of random commentary again as a distraction.

"It doesn't look too bad at all," Bruce remarked in surprise as he looked over the slice on her finger. "It's not nice by any means, and I'm sure it hurts like the devil still, but you'll heal relatively quickly. Dick was smart to use the liquid stitches; it makes it easier to give you painkillers without worrying about you bleeding out. Give me a minute and I'll get a fresh bandage for this."

Bruce stood from the kitchen table and headed out into the hallway opposite where they had entered the room, rummaging audibly in the first aid cabinet. Not that anyone knew it was first aid; the items housed within this particular cabinet were a bit above the average first aid selection. Selecting what he needed, Bruce returned to find Meara studiously avoiding the sight of her exposed injury. In the bunker that day, the sight would have annoyed him.

Now, seeing Meara Nolan in a new light, Bruce respected her reaction as being markedly different from his own. She wasn't a superhero and she didn't have to be. That's what he was there for.

In record time, Bruce bandaged the finger in question anew and held up the pill packet Meara had set on the table.

"Take these tonight," the billionaire insisted, cutting across whatever argument the young woman might have made, "I know you have a deep aversion for personal reasons unknown to me, but it's only for tonight. You'll be able to get some good sleep and you won't get addicted. You have my word. After all, I wouldn't take these if there was that high of a risk, now would I?"

Meara smiled slightly, sighing at last and nodding her head affirmatively. "I guess you have a very firm point there, Mr. Wayne."

"Glass of milk for it?" Bruce asked, lips twitching as he rose and pulled a cup from one of the cupboards.

"Of course," Meara nodded again, watching with an odd sort of humor in her eyes as Bruce poured milk from a gallon jug into a cup that was probably pure china of the most expensive variety.

Handing over the half-full glass, Bruce replaced the milk jug in the refrigerator and returned to his seat at the table.

"You know," Meara spoke once she downed the two pills, sipping the rest of her milk slowly, "I really need a more in-depth tour of the kitchens here and at the manor. I don't know where anything is. Silverware, plates, glasses, bowls… I don't know where to find any of that."

"Most of the time, you won't have to," Bruce snorted softly, leaning back casually in his chair. "About ninety percent of the time, Alfred will prepare any meals you take here."

"While that's probably true," Meara inclined her head in confirmation, "I will still need to know where things are for that other ten percent of the time, won't I?"

Smirking at the return of this snarky young woman's attitude, Bruce inclined his head the way his guest had done. "All right, another tour it is. Just let me know when you're tired."

"Sounds like a plan," Meara agreed with a smile, standing from her seat.

"Just start down here," Bruce gestured at the cupboard nearest the table, joining Meara in coming to his feet. "Oh, but first… over there behind the table is a pantry full to bursting; I think you can just look through that yourself when you have the time."

"All right," Meara nodded, following the billionaire in directing her attention to the cupboards. The long kitchen was all cupboards on the one side, top and bottom. Across the wide space from the cabinet-covered wall, the counters stretched along the wall as well, but no cabinetry spread across the top. The room would have seemed cluttered – all dark reclaimed wood, gray stone, and gleaming charcoal appliances – if not for how large it was. As it stood, the modern and masculine space felt wide open and grand.

"Start with every pot and pan you can imagine," Bruce pointed out, opening the nearest lower set of double doors to reveal a multitude of silvery cookware. "Baking, roasting, basting, frying… everything is covered. These kinds of items cover all four of the following cupboards on the bottom."

"All four?" Meara wondered, brow lifted in surprise.

"We have everything in multiples," the wealthy hero explained with a shrug. "When you have the kind of guest lists I have, it's always better to be prepared for large numbers and the possible absence of a caterer."

"I really should have known you better," Meara commented, shaking her head. "You're never unprepared."

"Once or twice, maybe," Bruce admitted quietly, eyeing the young woman speculatively for a long moment. Finally he turned with a shake. "Regardless… the bottom cupboards follow with platters and serving bowls, tureens, pitchers, cake plates, vegetable choppers, can openers, blenders… Almost everything to do with cooking, preparing, and serving is on the bottom left half, essentially. The top left cupboards hold all the varieties of plates and bowls, cups and saucers, teapots and creamers, salt shakers and butter dishes – all in that order. On the lower right half, we have steins, mugs, tumblers, and shot glasses. The top right holds our normal drinking glasses, wine glasses, champagne flutes, and snifters."

"That's a lot of alcohol," Meara responded dryly, eyeing the cupboards in mild distaste.

Bruce snorted, "I do serve social elitist drunks more than any other member of society… The last thing to know is that all the drawers on the left third section store serving utensils, then the rest is all silverware. The knife block is up by the sink on the opposite wall."

"Where I worked last night," Meara remembered, the discomfort in her finger still fresh while she waited for the painkillers to kick in. "I don't think I'll forget that area very soon."

"I guess not," Bruce shook his head in morbid amusement. "I wish I hadn't startled you. I truly didn't mean to at that time."

"I know you didn't," Meara sighed a little exasperatedly. "Let's forget about it, all right?"

"If you say so," the billionaire shrugged delicately, but Meara knew he wouldn't forget anytime soon.

"What do you store in the lower cupboards on this wall?" Meara asked as a temporary distraction, pointing to the opposite wall they had just discussed.

"Mostly cleaning and organization supplies," Bruce answered immediately, gesturing vaguely at the area in question, "Dish towels, rags, and detergent, scrubbers and drying rack… Multiple other cleaning supplies, trash container, garbage disposal on the far right…"

"Where do you keep your alcohol, anyway?" Meara asked curiously, not seeing a wine rack anywhere in the room, let alone storage for the other alcoholic beverages she knew of.

"The pantry is dual purpose," the Wayne heir told her simply.

Nodding, Meara let the silence prevail as she stared around the kitchen in interest. Bruce stood back wordlessly, allowing the young woman to take in the entirety of the room as long as she chose to do so. The billionaire had never taken time to look around as his guest did, gauging the room from an aesthetic perspective, rather than that of a combatant rating his environment for potential defensive positions and unexpected weapons. It wasn't too bad of a space no matter which viewpoint one took, Bruce had to admit.

"I'm really, really awake right now," Meara finally said aloud, slowly turning to face her host with a bored expression.

A half-laugh escaped Bruce as he considered her face, and he wondered if she realized the painkillers were working. Had they not worked, he doubted Meara would be focused enough to feel boredom.

"Why don't I show you around the whole penthouse?" the billionaire offered casually. "I know Alfred would never have shown you around with the mood you were in."

"He only made sure I could find my room from the main area," Meara explained, frowning slightly at the unclear memory. "I don't really remember it consciously, now that I think about it. It was more an instinct that led me back to it a little bit ago."

"A perfect opportunity, then," Bruce decided, offering a hand to pull the young woman to her feet.

Bruce made no shortcuts as he showed Meara around the lower level of the penthouse, showing every possible nook, cranny, and hidey-hole he knew of. On the upper level, he began the second half of his tour in an unused guest room, including the secret panel where he stored another set of his batsuit, computer system, and combat arsenal.

"No tricks this time," he informed Meara quietly, walking ahead to make sure all locks and safeties were in place before showing her around the hidden room.

"Thank you," Meara said just as quietly, although her movements were far more cautious and tentative than in the bunker that afternoon.

Bruce felt some measure of relief for that new caution, despite knowing how much it had hurt the brunette to experience his so-called test in the first place.

"Do you use this place very often?" Meara questioned, eyes trained on a dusty patch at the base of the weapons unit.

"Not much anymore," Bruce tilted his head slightly, a kind of sheepish embarrassment deeply buried on his face. "I asked Alfred to leave it for me; he barely has time anyway. As you can see, I haven't had much time, either."

"No, you clearly haven't," Meara remarked amusedly, reaching out to swipe the dust away with a careful hand as she moved beneath a particularly vicious-looking set of short blades.

"Ah well," the billionaire shrugged again, ambling slowly around the edge of the room. "I'll get to it when need be."

"Hopefully that need is soon," the young woman teased, turning away from the weaponry and walking towards the concealed door.

The rest of the upper level passed in a whirl of bedrooms and bathrooms Meara had only ever imagined in her young lifetime, the masculine grandeur once again a striking point of focus.

When Bruce pronounced their tour complete, Meara inquired thoughtfully, "Don't Dick and Tim have rooms here?"

"Not personal rooms, no," Bruce responded easily, guiding Meara back down the staircase. "For public consumption, this penthouse is my getaway for wine and women. Apparently I come here only when I want to be selfish, drunken, and belligerent. Not that it stops those rumors from reaching Wayne Manor or Wayne Enterprises, of course."

"So tonight was an anomaly?" Meara considered confusedly.

"I wanted you to see the penthouse," Bruce replied. "It's another place you could go for safety. Alfred was the one who suggested eating here tonight. By the time we got back to the manor, dinner would have been extremely late and I would never have tried to eat before patrol."

"Good thing Alfred knows his employer so well," Meara smiled, unable to trap a yawn that dared to escape her.

"I think you've finally gotten tired, Meara," Bruce remarked teasingly, waving her ahead of him to the hallway.

The young woman failed to respond, working through a second yawn while they walked.

"If you need me, just call out," Bruce told Meara as the approached her guest room. "My room is just down the hall from yours."

"Another gesture for the League?" Meara accurately guessed, stopping at her doorway.

"Clark covered all of his bases," Bruce shook his head in exasperation and annoyance. "So I had to follow up."

"At least it isn't as bad as the Caligo room," the young woman shuddered deliberately. "This room is actually really nice."

"The niceties of a modern living space," the billionaire joked. "Goodnight, Meara."

"Goodnight, Bruce," Meara responded in kind, yet another yawn gracing her features.

Bruce chuckled as he walked back down the hall to his own room, leaving Meara to slip through her new doorway and head straight back to the covers she had left turned down.

In the later morning hours, Meara woke with a wide stretch that ended in a yelp of surprise. Looking at her aching finger in shock, it took a few minutes for the young woman to remember her injury from the previous night. Sighing resignedly, the brunette more carefully drew herself into a sitting position and looked at the clock, which read eleven-fifteen.

Inhaling with deep surprise for having slept straight through what remained of her early hours, Meara glanced around her guest room in a cursory inspection, finding a large piece of folded paper and a black cell phone sitting on the table beside the bed. Looking closer, the soon-to-be assistant saw a sticky note on the folded paper and picked it up to read. The neat, tidy print informed her of a phone number to call Alfred and the temporary use of the basic black cell phone. Curious that the larger paper was not mentioned, Meara picked it up and opened the page.

Hand drawn, but unerringly accurate, was a map of the penthouse. Meara decided Bruce must have left it, the tidiness and overall sense of precision all too similar to what she knew of the man. The sticky note, too, must have been Bruce's. Meara wondered if he had even slept.

Finally rising from the bed, Meara stood and stretched again, irritated by the discomfort of her injured finger. Sighing more loudly than the first time, the brunette nearly walked past the footboard when she noticed a black and floral print luggage case atop a cushy gray backless sofa. Another sticky note graced its exterior, this time informing her of the clothes housed within the case's confines – Alfred had packed the case himself the previous day, utilizing casual clothing from Meara's wardrobe. Apparently, the young woman noticed as she glanced through the case, Alfred had been nice enough to give her the rare items she chose herself during their shopping excursion.

A tan and white striped pullover with long sleeves, a pair of aqua skinnies, and a loose, navy button-down with cuffed short sleeves didn't seem to match amazingly well on first glance, but Meara had practically begged for the pair of shoes which now pulled everything together. The bubblegum pink oxfords with navy and aqua stripes had not been Alfred's first choice in footwear for a young woman in Meara's position, but he'd given in with admirable sensitivity to the overwhelming nature of this new life.

Shaking her head humorously at Alfred's conciliatory gesture, Meara wondered how the butler had known –even well before her breakdown in the car – that she needed something of her own choosing to even out the balance and feel more like herself. Picking out a brush and hair tie, Meara headed to the attached bathroom (which she had no doubt was already stocked) to get ready for the day.

* * *


	8. Chapter 7: Prepared

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 7: Prepared**

Promptly outfitted in the pink, navy, and aqua striped oxfords she had so loved when shopping with Alfred, Meara Nolan stood ready at last, dialing the given number to reach the English butler with only mild difficulty thanks to her injured finger.

"Good morning, Miss Meara," Alfred responded on the second ring, a cheerfulness in his voice that had been missing the previous night.

"Morning, Alfred," Meara smiled slightly. "Bruce said I was supposed to call you."

"Indeed you were, Miss," the elder man affirmed. "Since Master Bruce has business at Wayne Enterprises that cannot be avoided this morning and afternoon, Master Dick will be picking you up and helping you become further acclimated to your new home."

"Okay," Meara shrugged casually. That she could handle. "Do you know what the weather is supposed to be like today?"

"A bit of a cool day, I believe," Alfred said thoughtfully. "Chance of rain, too, so prepare for that."

"When is Dick going to get here?" Meara wondered curiously.

"He should be there now, actually," Alfred informed her, his voice moving further away for a moment. "Yes, it's five minutes until noon. He's probably waiting in the living area."

"Thank you, Alfred," the young woman replied. "I guess I'd better get going."

"We'll see you later today, Miss Meara," the butler said with a smile in his voice. "Enjoy yourself a little."

"I'll try," Meara smiled wider than before. "Bye, Alfred."

Ending the call, Meara grabbed her new striped purse and taupe leather jacket, heading to the living area to find Dick waiting as Alfred had suggested, the young man settled on the sofa and plainly reading from a thin booklet of some kind with brows furrowed in concentration.

"Hey, Meara," the former acrobat spoke first, even as his eyes roamed the writing in his hands.

"Hi, Dick," the brunette responded with a mildly amused and exasperated shake of her head, coming to stand by the first Robin, who today had changed into tan and navy Vans, tan slacks, and a navy blue hoodie. "What are you reading, if you don't mind my asking?"

"University catalog," the young hero offered distractedly, still reading the booklet he held. "I thought we could tour Gotham University today. Get you acquainted before you start attending this fall."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Meara agreed easily. "I'm ready when you are."

"Yeah, I was just refreshing myself on registration and prereqs," Dick explained quickly, rushing through a few more lines before snapping the catalog closed and popping up from the sofa. "I guess it's not that important for me to know. You can read it as well as I can. I just thought if you had any obvious questions I could answer them better. Here."

On the last word, Dick handed the University catalog over to Meara, who grasped it more gradually as she glossed over the cover. "I picked up a new Fall booklet when I was there yesterday."

"Have you been taking summer courses?" Meara assumed, glancing up from the booklet in her hands. "At breakfast my first day here, I did wonder why you and Tim rushed out of the manor at the crack of dawn in the middle of summer. And on a Sunday, too."

"Yeah, I took this big two-part business course over the summer," Dick answered easily. "We had a mock board meeting as part of our finals and Sunday was the only day the university board room was free. Tim takes part in this year-round tech group at his school. Part of the image of a semi-normal kid. They all took part in this region-wide project updating computer systems for elementary schools. Sunday was one of the volunteer days, so they don't interrupt any summer activities kids are involved in."

"That's quite an ambitious project," Meara commented in surprise. "Sounds like a good group to be a part of."

"It was Tim's suggestion, actually," Dick smiled, warm brotherly pride saturating his voice. "He really enjoys helping people and when Bruce and Fox were talking about some local charities for kids, Tim really liked that one."

"He's just a big softie, isn't he?" Meara laughed appreciatively.

"Shh!" Dick teasingly hushed her, a laugh eventually escaping him. "Don't ever say that where he can hear you."

"The pride of men," Meara sighed amusedly. "Oh well, I promise to keep quiet."

"For your sake, I hope so!" Dick laughed more openly. "Come on, Miss Nolan, let's wander the grounds of ye old red schoolhouse."

"I'm pretty sure you just mixed a couple centuries up completely, but I'll bite," Meara rolled her eyes, following the chuckling nineteen-year-old through the penthouse and out to a shining gray Lexus. "Yours?"

"Sure is," Dick nodded. "Hop in."

Following his direction, Meara settled in the passenger seat and pulled on her seat belt the same as Dick, watching in silence as gray concrete passed them by level by level, finally exposing them to a wide opening of sunlight.

"So are you going for a business major, or is it your minor?" Meara asked as they finally slid smoothly onto the main street.

"This fall, I start working towards an MBA," Dick shrugged neutrally. "I don't like much else out there, so I figure at least business would ensure work at Wayne Enterprises without pandering to the daddy-complex. The media has enough trash to go around as it is."

"I'm sure you have far more skills and ambition than just avoiding media gossip," Meara remarked a little more sharply than intended, drawing Dick's surprised gaze.

"It was a side-thought, Meara," the young man frowned.

"I'm sorry," Meara commented more calmly, turning eyes to the view out of the passenger window. "I-I just hate to see people doubt their potential. That's all."

Dick passed constant glances at the now-silent passenger, taking to outright staring when they stopped at a red light until Meara started fidgeting.

"One of these days, I'll figure out what makes you so jumpy," Dick said quietly. "It's more than Bruce's test-happy mindset."

"He's not going to do that anymore," Meara replied defensively of her host. "He gave me a promise."

"If you say so," Dick muttered belligerently as the light turned green.

"I _do_ say so," Meara responded in a stronger voice than she had yet used, bringing another startled look from the former acrobat.

Another silence descended on the pair, even as they reached the Gotham University campus and Dick parked in an open lot by the building with 'Administration' posted above the main doors. The two young adults stood from the car in synchrony, the awkwardness stifling as they walked slowly down the sidewalk.

Finally, Dick took the initiative as he usually did, "I guess Bruce did what I thought he couldn't do."

"What do you mean?" Meara tentatively inquired, glancing over at the young man in her peripheral vision.

"He apologized to you, didn't he?" Dick answered with another question, voice and expression strangely neutral and blank.

"Yes, he did," Meara hesitantly but honestly confirmed, as yet unsure where the former acrobat planned to take the conversation.

Dick took a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly before he eventually spoke again, "You should know, Meara… This apology is absolutely the most atypical behavior Bruce has ever displayed. That man simply does _not_ apologize to people. No one."

"He's apologized to me at least… well, I can remember three or four times off hand," Meara murmured curiously, wondering what that meant in the grand scheme of things. "And he's thanked me once or twice, as well."

"I don't know what this says on the whole," Dick commented with measured tact, glancing over at the young woman with a thoughtful expression, "but you're the first person I know of who could make Bruce Wayne apologize four times in a whole year, let alone a measly five days."

Meara didn't quite know how to take that remark, so she remained silent and contemplative as they walked down the sidewalk.

Dick spoke up again, this time less seriously, "Why don't we eat lunch first? You can get used to the food center here. It's pretty much in the middle of the campus, anyway, so you'll have a nice central starting point for everything else."

"I am hungry," Meara admitted, still quiet and contemplative.

"After last night, I kind of guessed that much," Dick responded wryly.

The food center, as it turned out, looked more like a wide open greenhouse scattered with many plant species in many different colors; it was a bright, glass-pane enclosure lined with steel framework, broken only by trees which stood through close-fitted trunk openings in the ceiling above. The bushy tops of the trees stood well above the glass roof, swaying in a light breeze high overhead. Tables throughout the food center had been crafted with a reclaimed wood top and framed with thick steel in a simple, modern appearance. Elegant chairs designed with curving, steel wire frames boasted leather in muted jade green, while similarly wired two-seater booths had been upholstered in cognac leather. Benches which Meara had noticed outside on the walkways now became clearer at such close range, the same style of steel wire frames holding one thick black leather cushion.

The eating space boasted quite a variety of tastes and cultures, each its own station along the perimeter and all of which looked very well made and decently priced for a college student's low budget. Meara decided she would have an easy time finding a good meal at the university whenever she attended – although she probably wouldn't have to worry too much about price, she realized awkwardly.

"So, which culture would you care to sample today, Miss?" Dick prompted the young woman patiently, tilting his head in interest. Meara couldn't help smiling in amusement.

"I suppose I'll take Chinese fare today," the brunette answered with relative ease, eyeing a particularly appetizing batch of sweet and sour chicken lined up side-by-side with a mountain of soft spring rolls. "I can't ignore a box full of that delicious-looking chicken glazed to perfection."

"Nolan, I'll take that box of chicken and raise you box of chow mein noodles," Dick added, smiling agreeably and heading in the intended direction.

"Throw in some spring rolls and fried rice, and you're on, Grayson," Meara smiled again, teeth peeking out between her lips but barely. In spite of Dick's subdued anger and whatever issues he and Bruce had yet to sort out, the former acrobat had a distinctly cheerful, down-to-earth aspect to his personality that one couldn't help liking.

Dick ordered like he'd been born with a menu in his hand, and Meara wondered when he'd come there before. Probably on a routine day like any other, but the young woman couldn't help being curious. For all she knew, Dick could have been ordering fried rice and orange chicken, and then been called away to fight Scarecrow or Harley Quinn five minutes later. The very idea intrigued Meara and drove her curiosity.

Much to Meara's surprise, a box of chow mein and a box of chicken were altogether enormous, not to mention the rice and rolls she'd requested in addition. Staring at the gigantic meal awaiting them both, Meara turned her incredulous gaze up to Dick, only to find his blue eyes equally as flabbergasted.

"Wow," the young man remarked in surprise, turning to leave the food station with Meara in tow. "I didn't know it would be _that_ much food. No wonder it cost so much!"

Meara gaped unintentionally, turning back up to face the black-haired young man. "You mean, you've never been here before?"

"No," Dick answered, shaking his head to clear the shock and tucking the receipt in his pocket. "Why?'

"You ordered like you knew exactly what you were doing!" Meara commented much more quietly, grasping the edge of Dick's dark blue hoodie in unconscious emphasis.

"Yeah, Bruce knows a bit about a confident approach," Dick returned with a wry tilt of his mouth. "Even when you don't really feel it."

"Well, I know what we're eating for dinner, anyway," Meara finally decided dryly, shaking away her own surprise at last.

"You don't mind, do you?" Dick asked curiously. "I mean, you don't have to, you know? It's okay if you don't want it."

"No, I don't mind at all," the young woman shook her head again. "I'm used to eating leftovers."

"Budgeting?" Dick guessed shrewdly, settling their food, plasticware, napkins, and plates at a booth seating section somewhat secluded from the rest by a row of airy hedges. Dick seemed to be well-acquainted with it, although after her last belief of his knowledge, Meara chose not to make any more assumptions.

"Mm-hm," the young woman hummed her agreement instead, setting down their drinks and straws – the only items Dick had let her carry – as she added quietly, "I can't remember a time when I didn't have to budget."

"I actually remember my parents budgeting," said Dick thoughtfully, splitting their wares and offering a plate to Meara before digging in for his own meal.

"Was it hard to adjust when you moved to live with Bruce?" Meara asked quietly, not wanting too many ears to hear private history.

"Oh yeah, particularly that first month," Dick shook his head in mild disbelief. "There was so much money rolling everywhere and I never actually paid for anything myself. If it even _seemed_ I needed something, Bruce had it bought and subtly added to my room before I knew it. And I didn't have to _do_ anything. Eat, sleep, wake up with nightmares and not admit it, eat, try to sleep again… You get the picture. And for a twelve-year-old with anger problems who just watched both his parents die, that was the worst way to live."

"You needed your mind to be active," Meara offered understandingly, growing so quiet Dick almost had to lean in to hear her voice, "…to stop seeing what happened every hour of every day without ceasing. Always reliving it because there's nothing else to do…"

"Bruce had no idea what to do," Dick confessed equally as quietly, restraining himself from asking into Meara's own history. She deserved her own time to hash out whatever issues she still had from her own past. "Alfred hadn't been able to really help Bruce when he lost his parents. Bruce never moved on enough to help anyone else through the same trauma. It was like a big game the first month; who could avoid who for the longest period of time… I usually won, but only because Bruce didn't want to barge in when I was still grieving. So he usually left me alone – even when I probably shouldn't have been."

"You stewed all that time," Meara expanded shrewdly, pausing in the midst of absently swirling chow mein around with her fork. "Then it all blew up when he found you in the cave the first time."

"I was so angry…" Dick remembered mistily. "After he questioned me about what I was doing there, I pretty quickly lost my shock. Bruce never interrupted the raging. I spilled whatever vicious things I could until I ran out of energy – he just sat me down on the ground when I went silent and then he disappeared. The next thing I knew, he was standing there in his workout clothes, offering me a pair of boxing gloves. And the rest, you probably can guess at. It wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine a young acrobat jumping off rooftops and ledges."

A great silence covered the two young people as they ate in deep remembrance of the past, both absorbed in their own histories so far that they ate very little in the end.

Packing up their remaining meal, Dick led Meara back to the car to load their leftovers into a huge cooler in the trunk. Lifting an eyebrow dubiously, Meara spoke for the first time in a half-hour or more, "Are you planning on keeping a body stashed there?"

Laughing genuinely, Dick shut the trunk and guided her back onto the sidewalk. "You know Alfred is prepared for anything."

"I guess so," Meara smiled amusedly, focusing her attention back on the tour they were about to begin.

Gotham University passed by in a whirlwind of offices, classrooms, departments, and professors known or unknown. Meara never directly met anyone, but a number of people did seem to know Dick on first sight as they walked by. No one ever approached him, nor did they ever stare for long.

"What did you do, punch the top jock in the face?" Meara teased mildly when they entered another thruway on campus.

"It's mostly because Bruce is my guardian," Dick shrugged uncaringly. "They stay away because they think I'm just a rich brat. Judgment keeps flowing around schools at any age."

"It's such a shame people don't look beyond the surface," Meara sighed wearily.

"I know," Dick agreed readily. "But let's forget them. I'm more concerned with you learning what you need to. Any questions so far?"

"No, no questions yet," Meara answered, quickly adding, "None that I know to ask, anyway."

"Fair enough," Dick nodded once. "The last thing I was planning to talk about was the catalog and classes you might have, but we may as well wait until we have Bruce there to add his own ideas."

"Sounds like a plan," Meara responded comfortably. "You said fall semester begins on Wednesday, right?"

"Yeah, I did," he confirmed easily. "You'll probably be enrolled tomorrow, knowing Bruce."

"And it really does begin more quickly," Meara concluded wryly and nervously at the same time. "My work probably will, too."

"Can't say it won't, because it probably will," Dick remarked smartly, smiling slightly. "But you'll be fine. Trust me."

Neglecting to reply, Meara pursed her lips thoughtfully – even doubtfully – at the idea. Regardless, she didn't have much of a choice in the matter and it would do little good to fret wildly over the near future.

"Yeah, your face says it all," Dick chuckled at her. "Oh well. I'm going to keep reminding you anyway."

"Good luck with that," she rolled her eyes, following him to the car with mildly amused resignation.

The ride back to Wayne Manor passed with idle chatter about Gotham University, Dick doing most of the talking as they turned into the drive and followed the long dirt road up to the roundabout. Before they even came to a stop, Alfred exited the main doors of the manor and gracefully descended the steps to await their arrival.

"Good afternoon, Miss Meara," the butler greeted her pleasantly as he opened the passenger door, offering a helping hand to guide her onto the pavement. "Did you enjoy your day at the university?"

"I did, Alfred," Meara responded evenly, rising steadily from the seat. "Thank you for asking."

"Is Bruce still here, Alfred?" Dick inquired, shutting the driver's door behind him.

"He is indeed, Master Dick," the butler answered easily. "He's been arranging ideas for Miss Meara's education since lunchtime."

"Oh, good," the young man energetically responded, making his way around the car to join Alfred and Meara in their walk inside. "We can probably get this all done tonight."

"That's a good thing?" Meara sarcastically remarked. At Dick's raised brows, the brunette resignedly shrugged her agreement. "All right, it's a good thing."

"It definitely is," the master of the house intervened, some dry humor lingering in his blue eyes when Meara turned and caught sight of them. Nodding towards the entranceway, Bruce gestured them in. "I swear it's going to be quick. Most of the big decisions are based on timing according to your new position at the company. The rest is pretty much your own preference in degree programs and areas on campus."

That said, the four of them headed into the study and straight to Bruce's desk, where he had a number of program booklets already laid out and waiting for examination. Looking over the covers, Meara could see a definite pattern.

"Architecture, Urban Design," Meara quietly read aloud, expecting the first two options, but quickly giving way to steadily growing surprise at the last three. "Historical Preservation… Real Estate Development… Archives & Public History?"

Glancing up at the master of the house with raised eyebrows, Meara's stormy eyes silently asked the question in her head.

"With the base of education you already have," Bruce began to explain knowingly, coming to sit in his chair behind the desk, "and the speed at which you seem to learn, you could move into any of these realms with relative ease."

"Do these relate to Wayne Enterprises all that much, though?" Meara wondered, brows now lowered into a furrow of doubt.

"Any of these can have some relative possibilities for the company," Bruce shrugged mildly. "All in all, though, it doesn't really matter. The only reason I grabbed these particular programs was because you were already taking courses in architecture. It seemed to be the area you enjoy and these relate to that. I want you to have the degree you really want."

"Well, that's very _kind_ of you," Meara hesitated awkwardly. "But… I don't really know what I'm going to do with architecture. Honestly, I never considered becoming a bona fide architect. Not per se. It's just that I always loved sketching rooms and designs. A… friend told me I should take it up at college. Go for something more. Out of respect for them, I did just that."

"So do you actually like architectural studies or…" Dick wondered, letting his inquiry trail off into nothing as he raised his hands to shrug.

"I do enjoy the sketching and planning," the brunette responded, biting her lip thoughtfully. "It wasn't just to appease a friend. But I guess I never had a real goal at the end of it."

Sensing there was far more to the story than Meara was willing to admit, Bruce pursed his lips, but decided to let it pass for now. He had pushed her enough in recent days.

"Would you like to discuss what careers you could go into with these degrees, how you could move into those from your new position?" he asked instead.

"Not particularly," Meara shrugged sheepishly, yet surety overrode the embarrassed gesture by a large margin. "Don't get me wrong, I'm interested in all of these, but only as hobbies and personal exploration. For the most part, I'm not into real estate; buying and selling just aren't my style. Archives & public history leave very little room for sketching and artistic freedom. Historical preservation sounds fairly dead-end in such a progressive modern culture; the only place I could really preserve history is here at the manor. And I already know that urban design would have a much more far-reaching future than architecture. The dean made that very clear to everyone in the program."

"Just remember you could try one of the other programs as a minor," Dick added thoughtfully. "That allows you to explore one of those areas without committing to a full degree. Plus, if you don't enjoy it, you can drop it without hurting your main area of study."

"I'll think about that," Meara agreed with interest. "Getting educated in other areas might be a boost for my résumé in the future."

"All excellent points," Bruce nodded appreciatively for their reasoning. "If you're absolutely sure, Meara, we'll start deciding course options for the semester."

"I'm sure," the young woman nodded decisively. "Let's get cracking."

Smiling slightly at Meara's newfound confidence after her words to Alfred the previous day, Bruce knew they were on the right track for her future and started laying out the program course offerings with new energy.

Meara's energy matched spark for spark with that of Bruce and his household, even Alfred invigorated by the fresh cheer in the manor. So pleased was Alfred that he insisted on making a rather complicated meal with a number of intriguing exotic additions. Meara couldn't say she liked all of them, but she willingly taste-tested the strange creations with a reserved sense of adventure, often leading Bruce, Dick, and Tim to have a little laugh (well, a chuckle in Bruce's case) at her unexpected reactions throughout the meal.

Slipping into bed that night with such exuberance over the positive vibe in the house, Meara couldn't have imagined anything ruining the feeling.

At four-fifteen in the morning with the depth of sleep still clinging to her body and brain, eyes flipping open at some unknown catalyst, Meara was forced to reconsider that imagining.

Sighing irritably even in the thickness of her weary mind, the young brunette could already feel her body waking up without hope of return. Frustrated with the return of insomnia, Meara rose in the bed and felt the niggling of fear still creep in at the darkness of her dreary room.

Quickly grasping a robe and slippers, the soon-to-be assistant hurried from her room and through the same awkward path as the previous insomniac nights. Having the same doubts about light in the kitchen, Meara found her luck had not yet expired. Light poured across the dining room floor, a beacon to Meara's still-tired mind.

Completing her journey into the kitchen, the young woman found only Tim seated at the kitchen table, a plate of various foods in front of him as he munched. Meara recognized some of the unusual items Alfred had created for dinner amongst the lot.

Glancing up in surprise, Tim took one look at Meara and seemed to understand.

"Can't sleep?" the thirteen-year-old asked, to which the brunette could only nod wearily. "Come on. Sit with me. I could probably talk you to sleep. Want me to try?"

Allowing a small smile to cross her lips, Meara shook her head no. "I'll be fine, thanks."

"Oh well," Tim shrugged. "Here. I don't mind sharing."

So saying, the teen pushed his plates of snacks across the table for Meara to reach. Not precisely hungry, but empty-handed enough to accept it as something to do, the young woman settled into the chair across from Tim and picked up a fruit tart of some kind. It was one of the few things she had actually loved at dinner.

"Thanks," she responded quietly, munching on the tiny dessert mindlessly.

"How do you feel about Gotham?" Tim wondered out of the blue, grabbing a small handful of mini pretzels from the plate.

"It'll take getting used to, I suppose," Meara decided noncommittally. "I really won't know until I genuinely get out and live in it."

"That's life, I guess, right?" Tim shrugged helplessly. "What do you think of the manor? Or the penthouse?"

"I like them both, for different reasons," Meara concluded simply, leaving the matter to rest. In a brief silence, the brunette considered the thoughts running through her head before turning to a different subject out of the blue, "I know it might seem ridiculous, but I'm nervous about classes. It's not like I've never taken a class before, and I know what college is like overall. I lived it for two years, so I ought to. It's just… I don't know."

The young woman had no idea why she brought it up, really. It wasn't maddeningly vital to talk about and she wasn't especially prone to offering up personal feeling so readily. But there was something about Tim Drake she felt at ease with. She knew intrinsically that she could tell him anything and he would accept it without ever judging. Not that Bruce or Dick would, either, but it was more the sense that Tim would accept whatever feelings she spouted without trying to break them down and analyze them in the delving way his father and brother might. Well, she supposed Tim did that, too, if it came down to it. Still, it felt different from Bruce and Dick… Shaking off the deep thoughts, Meara diverted her attention to Tim's slow-in-coming response as he chewed through a pretzel.

"I think your real problem is public scrutiny," the thirteen-year-old finally decided thoughtfully, pretzels now forgotten in his hand. The black-haired teen turned to her with a more serious expression on his young face. "You're in a very different position now than you were in Detroit. Then, no one really gauged you for your social status or your economic standing. I'm not saying they didn't judge you, but here in Gotham while you live the rich life… well, it's going to be a whole other world of judgment and expectation. One you have no experience with. It's an unknown, so it's going to frighten you more you than you think it will."

It was moments like that when Meara had to take a step back and remember just who she was talking to. Tim Drake was no average teenager. Born into first-class wealth like Bruce, the teenage Robin was very well-educated. He was also born with far-superior intelligence to most children his age, something that could be hidden behind his sometimes youthful, boyish actions.

"I suppose you're right, Tim," Meara admitted with a sigh, sinking lower into her seat. "It just bothers me because there's no real solution to that issue. It will be ongoing throughout my life here in Gotham and I think that frightens me the most."

"The idea that you can't get away from it?" Tim rightfully assumed, leading Meara to nod her confirmation. Frowning a bit, her companion continued, "While it doesn't change that fact… just remember we're here for you. Well, I shouldn't speak for Bruce or Dick or Alfred, even though I'm pretty darn sure they agree with that. Anyway, I'm here. Any time you need it. You want to complain, I'll listen. You want a distraction, I'll talk. You want to throw something, I'll help you clean up the mess."

Laughing at the last one, Meara conceded humbly, "Thank you, Tim."

"You're welcome," the teenager shrugged, finally popping another pretzel into his mouth.

It was crazy and unexpected, but Meara felt infinitely reassured by Tim's simple assurance and casual logic. For a thirteen-year-old boy, Tim was also incredibly heartfelt and sincere. The ease of his assurance put _her_ at ease, too. That ease spread over the rest of the night, even when they both returned to their rooms and Meara finally felt asleep again in her dark, gloomy room.

The next morning after breakfast, while Tim helped Alfred with laundry, Meara spent time sitting with Dick and Bruce, deciding what else she needed to buy in order to be fully prepared for classes, work, and life in general. Tim, Dick, and Meara all separately decided to wear their version of pajamas to breakfast, something Alfred didn't look too pleased about, but he shook his head at them and let it lie. Fully dressed in black slacks and a tan button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back casually, Bruce had no particular opinion on their attire, getting right down to business and leading the pajama-clad Dick and Meara into the study to talk necessities.

The most obvious necessity, and the first they discussed, was the most expensive one.

"You definitely need a car of your own," Bruce decided without any doubt. "That's a certainty. And I'm sorry, but the money for the vehicle is coming from me. I want it paid for and completely in your possession, so I already put money in your account for it – anonymously, of course."

"I suppose I can handle that," Meara sighed understandingly. "I already dealt with the whole first car process, so it's not that big of a deal to skip it now."

"It'll still be in your name, obviously," Bruce offered. "We'll go find one after your list is sorted out."

Nodding in agreement, Meara turned back to said list with a concentrated expression. "Well, obviously I need all the general school supplies…"

It took a couple of minutes to write down all of the items for that specific category, but Meara was glad they were thorough about it. From notebooks to rubber bands, sticky notes to erasers, hole-punch to highlighters, there wasn't a single office supply left out of the long list. If that wasn't thorough enough, Bruce and Dick both suggested various furniture pieces, equipment, or decorative items Meara hadn't even considered in a fully-stocked home. But considering how far apart everything was, sometimes it just made more sense to have certain things directly on hand in her room.

"Don't forget tools specific to your designing," Dick threw in as an afterthought. "Sketchbooks, tri-ruler, protractor…"

"I just realized," Meara started, eyes widening as she thought of something very important, "I need a computer."

"That was the next thing on my mind, actually," Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "You should get a laptop and a desktop system both. Do you want me to put it all together for you?"

"You would know best, I imagine," Meara wryly commented, thinking of the amazing technology in the cave and the city bunker.

"Any program requests for me to add?" asked Bruce, the dark-haired man eyeing the brunette with a raised brow for her remark.

"Office program, CAD, photo editing software," Meara ticked off the list on her fingers, thinking hard. "I don't really know what else… Solitaire?"

Snorting, Bruce shook his head as Dick laughed out loud at the sly addition. Moving forward, the billionaire said exasperatedly, "I'll add anything else that seems useful."

"Thank you," Meara smiled slightly, tucking her legs beneath her more comfortably.

"What about music or movies?" Dick wondered, tapping his knee with a silver retractable pen. "I know you must have liked them a lot in your old life, with how much you watched about us. You could get a TV, stereo, movie player… yada yada."

"I don't know where they'd go in that room," the young woman frowned vaguely. "But that's something to look into."

"A cell phone was next on my list," Bruce put in. "But that will be another project for me. I need to modify it for our other… circumstances."

"Of course," Meara tipped her head in agreement.

"Any particular color or pattern for the body of the phone?" Bruce wondered, looking at Meara curiously. "It's simple enough to make, so don't worry about that."

"I'm not sure," Meara hesitated. "I think a pattern would be easier to recognize as my own, but I don't have any idea which pattern I would want."

"Why don't you sketch something?" Dick suggested, intrigued. "That way it's all your own creation and no one can have the same case as you."

"That's sounds like a good idea, actually," Bruce nodded in mild surprise. "Try to have something by the end of the weekend."

"I can do that," Meara nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.

"I think we've covered our bases," Dick said through a yawn, stretching his arms high above his head. His back cracked audibly in the quiet room.

"I agree with that," Bruce added, folding up the list he had written himself. "Well, Meara, if you want to get dressed, we'll go find you a vehicle."

Nodding her head in agreement, Meara rose from her comfortable position with some reluctance, list in hand, and headed upstairs as indicated. Given her unusually high desire for extreme comfort, Meara went very basic with her wardrobe, grabbing a pair of black knit pants and a red cotton shirt with a false wrap-front, three fake buttons, and long sleeves.

Easily slipping into a similarly simple pair of black and gray flats, Meara searched her closet for a black jacket and came away with a hooded pea coat and a small plum gray crossbody. Into the crossbody Meara placed all of the small items she'd had in the green striped purse of before.

Meara had nearly made it out the door of the Caligo room when she ran into Alfred.

"Oh, sorry Miss Meara," the butler stepped back, offering Meara more room to maneuver as he said, "I came up to warn you of the rain. It's been coming and going, but you'll probably want boots and a hood with your outfit."

"I have the hood, but not the boots," Meara informed him thoughtfully. "Thank you, Alfred. I'd better go find a pair of boots now, I guess."

"Of course, Miss," Alfred concurred with a nod and turned back towards the stairs, "If you need me, I shall be downstairs."

"Okay, Alfred," the brunette agreed thoughtfully, already moving back into her sleeping space and towards the closet.

After digging through most of her new shoe collection, which was by no means small anymore, Meara finally found a pair of gray boots that matched her purse precisely – Alfred's doing, she had no doubt. Considering the probable price tag, the lightly printed floral footwear was a bit… well, tacky… but the young woman didn't have much of an option without spending a long time choosing something else. The pair of shiny boots could at least cover the calf or fold halfway down to reveal a plaid patterned interior, the former being Meara's preference for a rainy day. With her new boots, however, Meara's wide-legged pants didn't fit very well. Sighing at the nuisance, the young woman searched out a pair of fitted black knit pants instead.

Heading back out of the room in her altered attire, Meara actually made it through the doorway this time and started down the staircase where Bruce waited fairly patiently for her. He had added a black suit jacket over his tan dress shirt, sleeves rolled back down and cufflinks in place. Over his arm he had slung a hooded black field jacket, which he pulled on as soon as he saw Meara descending the staircase.

"Ready to go?" the billionaire wondered, to which Meara nodded when she stepped off the last stair.

"Since the bike would be a little rainy, we'll take a car this time," Bruce offered, pulling on his hood and leading a path through the entryway, out the main doors, to the familiar gray car sitting in front of the steps. Hood up against the rain, Meara had to lean in to hear Bruce's next words, "Dick's car is the least conspicuous option."

"Right," Meara agreed quietly, nodding as they walked into the drizzling atmosphere and she finally slipped into the vehicle. Bruce took a moment more to reach the driver's side, by which time Meara had fastened her seat belt and prepared herself as much as possible for a ridiculous ride.

"I'm not going to drive _that_ wildly," Bruce remarked with a roll of his eyes when he caught sight of Meara's hands gripping the seat belt.

"Whatever you say," the brunette shrugged, not allowing her hands to loosen in the slightest.

Shaking his head, the billionaire reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a blue leather checkbook. "Here, these are the checks for your account. They're basic for now, but you can order others later on if you wish."

"Thank you," Meara smiled slightly for his efforts to make life easier. "I doubt it matters much. Checks are checks, in the end."

"And money is money," Bruce concluded approvingly, driving away from the front steps while Meara slipped her new checkbook into the gray crossbody she'd chosen. "A good philosophy."

True to his word (and Meara's surprise), Bruce really didn't drive all that crazy. The most ridiculous thing he did was speed into the car dealership before a line of incoming cars could clog up the road. Meara rolled her eyes at the growling engine, ignoring Bruce's smirk long enough to unfasten the belt and exit the door as he did.

"I told you," he commented quietly, then took the lead before Meara could reply.

Bruce the prosperous businessman came out to play when the auto salesman came to see which high-roller had entered his dealership. Coming to the decision that watching Bruce's business techniques was beyond her needs at the present time, Meara wandered through the lot eyeing new cars as the rain died down a little bit. She knew better than to follow her natural instinct to the as-is lot (if a high-end car lot even had one). Bruce would have had a fit – if not broken the vehicle on purpose and replaced it with a… a Maserati or something.

"See anything you like?" Bruce's voice, more normal than before, roused Meara from her concentration. Turning to face Gotham's prince as he strolled towards her with hands in his pockets, the young woman considered what she had seen so far.

"Not necessarily," Meara shrugged, "although I think I've been drawn towards the white cars more often than anything else. I don't know why. Usually I like colors more than neutrals."

"I can have them bring around a selection for you to view," Bruce offered simply.

"I think I'll just keep looking around," Meara denied cautiously, biting her lip to keep a smile held in.

Given twenty more minutes of easy browsing while Bruce fended off excitable sales agents, Meara finally found three very nice white cars she just loved.

On the one hand, the four-door Porsche Panamera caught her eye from the start. Even before the test drive (in which Meara mostly ignored the salesman's overly exultant descriptions), the young woman knew she would like the Porsche. On the other hand, a four-door Mercedes-Benz CLA250 seemed classier and better suited to her new position in life.

When Meara saw the third car, she could have laughed if she wasn't so surprised.

"Maserati?" Bruce wondered with a raised brow, eyeing the Ghibli S Q4 with interest. "You certainly have good taste, Meara."

"I didn't even know I liked fancy cars this much," the young brunette retorted with a raised brow of her own.

"Well, which one do you like the most?" Bruce inquired curiously, turning to Meara.

Taking a long moment to look at each vehicle in turn and consider the features and price tag of each one, Meara couldn't help loving one far above the rest.

"I had a feeling about that one," Bruce told her wryly, patting the roof of the car twice in acceptance.

Grinning mildly, Meara couldn't deny the joy that ran through her at the thought of driving that car every day.

Bruce chuckled at her repressed cheer and gestured at her purse, "Get out your checkbook, then."

With Bruce's assistance, Meara went through the process of fully purchasing a brand new vehicle and choosing whatever insurances and securities worked best for the car and Meara's new situation. To Meara's shock, the dealer placed keys and license plate in her hand to drive the car right off the lot. Looking over at Bruce in surprise, he nodded his agreement to the choice.

"There's nothing to add to the car here at the dealer," the billionaire explained quietly. "The rest is up to me."

Meara nodded her understanding and turned to slip inside her very own 1st class vehicle. No doubt Bruce would add modifications and enhancements to suit the dual life they were embroiled in, so Meara didn't even worry herself over it. Bruce would handle it in a timely and efficient manner before the car saw any real use.

Adjusting to the interior of the car turned out to be the oddest part of the entire transaction, although Bruce sat inside with extraordinary patience to help Meara adjust to the every switch and gadget. Thanking God for the man's exceptionally brilliant mind and his quick cleverness, Meara finally felt ready to drive back to Wayne Manor.

Bruce led the way in Dick's gray Lexus, none too lightly aided by his backup configuration of the GPS system in Meara's vehicle and a hand-drawn map he had already put together when Meara dressed for the day. The same black cell phone Bruce had allowed the young brunette to use also played a role in backup – just in case Meara got visually separated from Bruce along the way. Not that she suspected the billionaire hero would ever let it get that far, but unaccustomed as she still was to Gotham, it was nice to know there was help readily available if she ever lost sight of her guide.

Returning to Wayne Manor thoroughly unscathed from their drive, Meara followed Bruce back to the garage for the first time since arriving at his family home. Off on a side road two car lengths deep and as long as the structure itself, the garage – or carriage house, as it were – sat far enough back that it was unnoticeable from the front of the house. Decently large, yet designed with a taste to match the beauty and old-world style of the stonework manor, the newer structure barely even looked like an actual garage. The only giveaways to the building's true purpose were the Gothic, champagne-colored doors at each car space, although they had been designed to look far more old-world than they actually were. Bruce parked Dick's car in front of the fourth door, leaving it running as he stood to gesture Meara into the fifth as it opened.

Alfred, Dick, and Tim all stood waiting as Meara pulled inside the building, the latter two dropping jaws slightly as they realized just what kind of car the young woman had decided on.

Sensing there would be an explosion of sound and questions when she left her new car's interior behind, Meara waited to get out until Bruce had pulled the Lexus inside also and the doors began closing behind them both. Finally venturing to open the door when Bruce stood from his elder son's car, Meara nearly jumped as the two youngest of the Wayne men immediately hit her with exclamations.

"You got a Maserati!" Tim half shouted in Meara's direction, unable to look up at her directly with his eyes glued to the car as they were.

"You have style, I'll give you that," Dick nodded in surprise, staring at the car himself. "I didn't even think to get something that flashy."

"Is it that ostentatious?" Meara wondered with worries she had not even considered while standing beside Bruce Wayne, now biting her lip with a furrowed brow. "I knew I should have went with the Mercedes. It was more suitable to someone in my position. Oh, no."

"Don't be melodramatic, Miss Meara," Alfred sighed at her. "You're going to be getting a very nice annual salary. Believe me, this is a fitting vehicle for you."

"But Dick said it was flashy!" the brunette protested instantly.

"Well, of _course_ it's flashy," Dick concluded exasperatedly, at last able to pull his eyes away from the car and turn them onto the young woman in question. The twenty-year-old tilted his head at Meara with fond annoyance. "You're in the position to buy flashy. That's the point."

"People will expect you to go big," Tim added casually, shrugging his shoulders. "One of my parents' friends held a similar position to what you soon will; she had both a Ferrari and a BMW."

"Besides," Bruce finally spoke, and Meara could already feel her arguments sliding away from her as the last Mohican put his oar in, "you're associating with my brand of people now. That means you make a statement or you don't say anything at all – metaphorically, I mean. If you don't get something like the Maserati, you may as well buy something equivocating scrap metal. That's how much people will care if you purchase anything less luxuriant."

"I… It seems so…" Meara tried to verbalize her ongoing worries, but Tim's words from the previous night came to mind with unnerving accuracy.

_I think your real problem is public scrutiny…_

… _it's going to be a whole other world of judgment and expectation…_

_It's an unknown, so it's going to frighten you more you than you think it will…_

Sighing at the realization that her worries were based in her old life and not in the unknown of Gotham's highlife, Meara let her shoulders drop. She still really had no idea what she was getting into with this world. Just when life seemed to be improving, all of the uncertainty came back to plague her in waves. Feeling a whole new level of low in the span of seconds, Meara looked down at her hand to stare at shiny keys to the luxury car in her expensive new existence.

"Come on," Dick spoke up softly after a while of the young woman's gazing, grasping Meara's elbow to lead her around to the Lexus. "Forget about the Maserati for a while. We can go buy your supplies for classes."

Staring a moment longer at the object which had brought her back down from some kind of emotional high after her talk with Tim, Meara eventually nodded and let the elder brother lead her to the passenger door.

"You have your list?" Bruce inquired just as gently while Dick opened the door.

"My purse," Meara answered quietly, patting the object lightly for emphasis.

"Good," Dick answered for all of them, only closing the door once Meara settled in the passenger side with her seatbelt on.

"Let's go find some supplies," Dick offered with more cheer than he probably felt as he eventually shut the driver's side door behind himself and turned the key.

* * *


	9. Chapter 8: Shadowed

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
Selina just kind of, um, slithered her way into this… Oops?

> **Chapter 8: Shadowed**

Concerned glances from Dick's peripheral vision were not lost on Meara as they drove towards the city. The young man seemed just as disturbed as he had in the city bunker when Bruce 'tested' Meara. Truly, the brunette would have said something to assuage the bothersome feelings, but her tongue failed her more than once as her mind considered some significant thing to say.

Dick never stopped stealing worried looks at her from the driver's seat, although as they finally gained ground on the urban section of Gotham, Meara found they no longer bothered her. Instead, she found it gratifying that someone cared enough to worry. It had been a long time since anyone had bothered with anything approaching concern. Finding four such people in the same household stood testament to the heart beneath everyone who passed under Bruce Wayne's care, however latent or subdued.

"You gonna be okay?" Dick wondered when they turned into a parking lot at last. Fumbling for a glance at where they were, Meara tried to remember when her mind had blanked out from the surrounding atmosphere.

"I'll… handle it," she settled on, knowing it wasn't nearly enough, but it was all she had at the time.

"You'll get used to this, I promise," Dick replied more understandingly, plainly relieved Meara had at least spoken. "It takes time, but you will."

"I have to keep reminding myself of that," Meara responded with a sigh, turning back to the world outside the car for a distraction. "Where are we?"

"Don't laugh," Dick warned the young woman ahead of time, confusing her until he finally sighed and answered resignedly, "Happy Shack."

Meara blinked for a minute, eventually coming up with, "Excuse me?"

"It's a restaurant," the nineteen-year-old explained with another sigh, this time a little embarrassed if Meara was any judge. "College kids hang out here a lot. Kind of the groupie hangout. I thought maybe… maybe the bright, normal atmosphere would cheer you up a little. You know, make you feel a bit more like yourself."

"Dick, I think you're the sweetest guy I've ever met," Meara couldn't help telling the black-haired young man, allowing a genuine smile to cross her face. "Thank you for thinking of me."

"You're welcome," Dick shrugged, but he looked satisfied.

"Especially with something you don't normally like," The young brunette added knowingly, drawing a pair of surprised blue eyes up to her face. "I can tell from your embarrassment."

"And you commented on _our_ deductive abilities?" Dick murmured with a raised brow. More loudly, he finished, "I think you're going to fit in with us just fine."

Having said his piece, Dick got out of the car and rapidly walked around to open Meara's door for her with a wry comment, "Anyway, we should eat before we dissolve into a shopping spree. I'll need a lot of protein to hold the bags."

Snorting quietly, Meara muffled a louder laugh and stood from the car much pleasanter in her outlook. "Don't be so ridiculous."

Shrugging broadly, Dick turned to lead the way into Happy Shack, already puling off his blue field jacket now that the rain had ceased, leaving him in a long-sleeve blue pullover and dark jeans. Meara joined him, slipping off her black hooded coat and folding it over her arm.

A few people turned to stare when Dick walked in, but they once again glanced away as they had on the college campus. Dick headed further into the crowded eatery, obviously unconcerned with the attitudes of his fellow students. Following him to a window table that was remarkably empty, Meara wondered how long he had been avoiding interaction with the other college-age kids. Meara had to wonder, but no answers came. Unless she asked Dick upfront, they never would, but she had a feeling that was one topic Dick wouldn't elaborate on too clearly.

Regardless, Meara took a seat at the table with Dick and put the issue out of her mind for the present time, instead asking in a far more generic vein, "So you never eat here?"

"Oh, I do sometimes," the young man admitted a little sheepishly, hyperaware of their surroundings. "Mostly with Barbara."

"Barbara Gordon?" Meara wanted to make certain, keeping her voice low to avoid eavesdroppers getting more than they needed to know.

"Yeah, that Barbara," Dick replied immediately, shaking his head. "Sorry. Forgot you haven't actually met her yet."

"That's okay," Meara smiled slightly, genuinely unfazed. "So you shared some meals here?"

"Yeah. Well, lunches anyway," the black-haired acrobat answered with a shrug. "She works through lunch when she's busy, so I try to get her to take a break. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't."

"Hmm…" Meara hummed noncommittally on the topic of this particular couple, uncertain how it was progressing beyond 'cow eyes' as Bruce so delicately put it four days earlier. Until she met Barbara herself, she doubted it would matter much anyway. "So, any favorites from the menu?"

"Nah, the food is pretty basic," Dick shrugged carelessly. "But the drinks and desserts are usually really good. Italian cream sodas here are the best. Not that I'm surprised. That's one of their biggest claims to fame."

"I've never had one of those before. What flavors do they have?" Meara wondered interestedly.

"About any flavor you can think of…" Dick chuckled. "I believe their slogan is '70 Sassy Soda Syrups' or something pretty darn close."

Snorting, Meara shook her head exasperatedly. "Well, I won't be short of options, I guess. What's your favorite?"

"Raspberry and orange," he answered easily. "Most of the fruit flavors are good to me, though. Grape is probably next on my list."

"What about Barbara?" the brunette wondered.

"She's big into vanilla and root beer," Dick responded, unfocused as he looked over the soda list. "Said it tasted like a root beer float."

"Why not just get a float, then?" Meara couldn't help asking, one brow lifted ironically.

"Something about the ice cream melting bugs her," the dark-haired young hero laughed a bit, a reminiscent quality to his features.

"Is there anyone else who comes here?" Meara inquired, a little smile lighting her face.

"No one meaningful," Dick explained, a knowing expression gracing his face. "That what you meant?"

"Sounds about like it," the soon-to-be assistant tilted her head embarrasedly.

"There _was_ one time last spring Zatanna was here," Dick told the young woman conspiratorially, seeming mightily amused. "Still not entirely sure why she was here, but while she was, one of the fop jocks told her to try the local fare. I won't say what he actually meant, but let's just say Zatanna wasn't laughing."

Rolling her eyes, Meara cut in briefly, "I can't say I'm all that amazed."

"Yeah, but you probably know Zatanna," Dick snorted. "She ordered some incredibly weird flavor of Italian soda. I think she combined coffee and watermelon. I don't even know. Whatever it was, she told the server to say it was a gift from her to the jock. Boy, his thick skull expanded… until he tasted that soda. He spit it out – right on the manager!"

Meara found herself laughing with Dick over the story. Zatanna certainly was as much a firecracker as what Meara knew, it seemed.

"What else is a 'claim to fame' for this place?" Meara changed the subject interestedly while they waited for a server to come to their table. Based on the mildly boisterous crowd in the restaurant, Meara wasn't surprised it took so much time.

"Oh, they like to do the mixed dessert-drink types," Dick sighed in thought, drawing up the menu. "Italian Cream Sodas, as you now know, and Fruit Shakers. It's a milkshake with real fruit pieces added after it's mixed. They do every kind you can dream up, of course. They also do snow cones in Spring and Summer. Tim loves the shakers."

"Hm. Interesting place," Meara commented casually, glancing at the menu. "Does Bruce ever eat anything so… casual?"

Snorting quietly, Dick shook his head in the negative. "Not even close. He's all about healthy this and nutrient that… You know, keeping himself in the best possible human physical shape. No cream sodas in _that_ dietary plan."

"Well, that being said," Meara repressed a smile at the fitting description. "I usually like orange flavored drinks. I think I'll try an orange cream soda."

"Good on you," Dick smiled. "I'm getting one, too. See how that works? Great minds think alike after all."

Meara allowed a small laugh to bubble out of her mouth at the young man's humorous take on life, shaking her head amusedly as she turned back to the menu.

There was little else of major interest to talk about for the rest of their early afternoon at Happy Shack, which suited Meara just fine. Bogged down with so much important information and dark history to wade through so far since arriving in Gotham, particularly the past day or so, the young woman felt a break was definitely in order.

Heading of out the college hangout with two orange cream sodas to-go, Dick and Meara finally headed back into the world to start purchasing her supplies. The next stop on their road trip was a modern, boxy, gray building with a shining exterior featuring a cube as its three-dimensional logo.

"The Cubicle," Dick answered, turning into the parking ramp across the street before a red SUV could run past them. "It's an office supply store. Most of what you need will probably be in here."

Dick definitely wasn't kidding. Meara crossed off most of her list just in The Cubicle and left with eight bags in hand, which was a little difficult with her bandaged finger stuck out to one side, but she did manage. Eight more bags were in Dick's grasp as he pulled her down the sidewalk after they left.

"We're not going back to the car?" Meara wondered in surprise.

"Nah, you only have a few things left," the young acrobat answered easily. "The last places you need are right next to each other and only a few blocks away from here. I'll go grab the car while you're paying."

Shrugging, Meara agreed to follow him four blocks away to a side-by-side collection of hardware, general merchandise, and furniture. With the last six items on her list found in the first two, Meara didn't bother to go in the furniture shop just yet.

"Are you sure you don't want to look in there?" Dick asked for the second time, looking a little confused.

"I want to wait until I know how the computer fits into the room," Meara confirmed surely. "I might not have that much room for anything else in there."

"Yeah, but if you do get something, you might want to know what you like ahead of time," Dick debated with a shrug.

"I guess that's true," Meara frowned in thought. "Okay, I'll take a look, at least."

"All right, I'll go and get the car," Dick agreed, smiling slightly and turning to walk back the way they originally came.

While the furniture shop displayed high-quality designs worth a great deal of money, from the first step in the door, Meara didn't feel any interest in the out-of-date, inelegant styles. Taking a testing glance around towards the back, she saw nothing but the same plain, traditional elements as right beside the front door. Sighing a little disappointedly, the brunette swirled right back around to exit the shop and wait for Dick.

No sooner had Meara put a foot past the open door when her body collided with something solid, and she fell right back on sidewalk, shopping bags thudding right beside her stunned form. By the accompanying large thud across from her, Meara suspected the person she'd hit had lost their balance, too.

"I'm so sorry!" a feminine voice reached Meara's ears, the words tainted by the slight strain of the woman pulling herself back to her feet and stepped up beside Meara. "Are you okay?"

Accepting the helping hand offered down to her, Meara rose a bit ungracefully to her feet. As she rose, her eyes followed two black-booted feet, a pair of long legs wrapped in black nylons, leading up to a black romper and a gray blazer overtop. Eyes finishing the rounds of observation, Meara finally glanced up past dark red lips to a pair of baby blues that seemed familiar in a strange, spiritual way.

From beneath waving raven hair and long, flattering black lashes, intense, dark-lined eyes stared back at Meara in mixed surprise and understanding, the underlying sense of sympathy easy for the young brunette to pick out.

"Meara Nolan," the woman quietly announced, to which Meara's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "So we finally meet in the flesh."

"I should have expected to see you someday," the young woman finally responded simply, gaze all too calm as she realized precisely who she had run into. "Hello, Zatanna."

"I didn't _intend_ to run into you, you know," Zatanna answered with a tiny smile, the intensity of the moment dying away like a swift breeze. The lithe mage melted into a very normal, albeit undaunted, woman so quickly Meara had to shake herself out of shock.

"I can guess what you might want to see me for, though," the black-haired magician commented more softly, a sad expression on her face.

"I just need to know what you learned," Meara was able to respond through a suddenly tight throat, hands clenching into firm fists by her sides. "That's all."

"All written down," Zatanna explained quietly. "I knew either you or Bruce would want that information at some point."

Meara's panic must have shown on her face very clearly, because Zatanna interceded in a shot, "Oh, don't worry, though! It's locked up with protective spells. All's well!"

Exhaling in a great breath of relief, Meara slumped as she nodded, "Thank you."

"Come on and I'll give it to you," the other woman replied with a smile. "I'm just heading back to my place, anyway. I have to get ready for my show tonight."

"I'm waiting for Dick," Meara shook herself firmly, remembering her companion when she recalled her sprawled shopping. Bending to pick up the still mostly-together items, Meara noted gratefully that nothing seemed broken at the outset.

"Oh, I'll text him," Zatanna waved off the younger woman's concerns like a puff of smoke, aiding the young woman in picking up her possessions. "They all know where my place is. If they're that worried, they'll drop in and check on you."

Wavering another moment in indecision, Meara bit her lip as she considered. Dick had only gone to get the car, after all… But then Meara didn't exactly want him joining in the conversation this time, did she?

Deciding firmly that she did not, Meara finally nodded once, "Okay. Let's go."

Smiling again, the dark-haired woman nodded in return and pulled out her phone, pressing in a brief text and hitting send before she put it away again.

"Here, let me carry some of your bags. It doesn't look like light stuff you're carrying around."

"School materials," Meara explained, allowing four of her bags to slip into Zatanna's fingers. "Stuff for living here long-term… I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Zatanna sighed understandingly, leading the way down the sidewalk and around the opposite corner from where Dick had gone. "I can't imagine you have much with you in Gotham."

"No, that's for certain," Meara dryly responded, a darkness clouding her tone that Zatanna frowned at.

"Anyway," the other woman shook it off, gladly closing the subject down, "Bruce will get you what you need."

Sensing the end of the subject, Meara allowed it to die off and nodded her agreement. Yes, Bruce would take care of what she needed.

"So, is Gotham growing on you yet?" Zatanna changed subjects easily. "It can't be easy getting used to a place this size."

"My hosts are growing on me," Meara replied carefully, uncertain how she felt about the torn city around them. "I don't think I'll really have an opinion on Gotham until I've lived with its people and walked its streets a little more."

"Don't walk too many of those streets," the black-haired woman remarked with a sigh. "It's not safe. Not alone, anyway."

"I kind of figured that," the soon-to-be assistant commented wryly. "With my luck, I'd probably get lost anyhow. That's not on my bucket list, I assure you."

Chuckling, Zatanna went on to say, "Of course, with Bruce on your side, you could walk straight into the Narrows and not have a problem."

"I'd prefer not to test that theory," Meara disagreed, shivering at the memory of those abandoned, boarded buildings covered in dirt and decay.

"Well, the sentiment stands," the other woman shrugged helplessly. "How is Bruce, by the way? Still having problems with the mean, green, fighting machine?"

"He's still suspicious of me, I'm sure, if that's what you mean," Meara shrugged awkwardly, glancing around the people passing by to gauge if anyone was listening too closely. Green Lantern was a whole other host of problems waiting to happen if they didn't tread carefully.

"Stubborn one, huh?" Zatanna half-smiled, rolling her eyes. "Too bad. Seems like an honorable kind of guy."

"He can be," Meara agreed. "If he would loosen up a little, it would be more obvious."

"At some point, he'll get over it," Zatanna assured her confidently.

"No way," Meara interceded disbelievingly. "In ten years, that man will still think I'm out to get somebody. Probably by smashing them over the head with my backpack."

"You know, I can actually see that happening," the magician commented in concern, making Meara slightly nervous until she glanced over and noticed the sly look on Zatanna's well-defined features.

"I swear, you people are either paranoid or crazy," Meara shook her head exasperatedly, unable to help the smile that flitted across her face.

Zatanna laughed at the young woman's expression, finally stopping at an apartment building with a worn-out red brick exterior, but seemingly newer windows and doors. "This is my place. Follow me."

Inside the complex looked about the same as the outside, a basic, worn structure with some newer elements mixed in. As they climbed stairs to the fourth floor, Meara decided the owner had to be engaged in a slow reboot of their tenancy – stone-age slow, in fact.

"It's not the greatest," Zatanna explained knowingly, voice dry, "but it's a decent area still and the prices are good. No bed bugs, either. Whew."

At the last word, the magician pretended to swipe her brow of sweat and shake off her hand to the side. Biting her lip in good humor, Meara neglected a response.

Joining the chuckling woman in entering apartment 416, Meara took a decent look around while setting her bags on a large, square, bi-level walnut coffee table beside the ones Zatanna had set down.

Matching walnut cabinetry filled the kitchenette to one side, and from what Meara could see, doors and furniture accents throughout the apartment followed the scheme as well. Contrasting with the rather bright walnut coloring, the rest of the living space sported black, rich greens, and dark neutrals. The walls boasted a basic neutral tone, something Meara expected in an apartment complex. Most of the apartments she'd lived in as a child had been bestowed with a similar coloring.

Compared to the contemporary, natural theme overall, most of the accent pieces Zatanna chose were of a mystical, old-fashioned variety that Meara might even label as tacky in some ways. But there was a warm, comfortable feeling in spite of that – Meara couldn't complain.

"Do you want something to drink?" the other woman offered congenially, opening up her refrigerator to look at its contents with a furrowed brow. "I have water, cola, orange juice, lemon-lime soda, beer… I might even have a wine cooler or two back here somewhere."

"Cola," Meara accepted with a shake of her head, a small smile on her face.

"Eat?" Zatanna offered in addition, quirking her brow almost comically. "I _swear_ you won't get food poisoning."

"Should I be worried that you have to reassure me on that point?" Meara remarked with a raised brow of her own.

Zatanna snorted quietly, pulling out two colas and heading back into the living area to hand one off. "Well, not exactly. Do you mind if I change into my work clothes first?"

"No, go ahead," Meara agreed easily. "I'll probably feel more normal that way, anyhow."

"True enough," the mage laughed and cracked open her can of soda, gesturing at the thick-cushioned green couch as she headed towards another doorway – presumably her bedroom – to change clothes. "Go ahead and sit down. I'll go change and get my notes."

Now free of her baggage, Meara settled onto the couch and paid a lot of attention to her bandaged finger; ever since the run-in with Zatanna outside the furniture shop, it has been throbbing. No fresh blood on the bandage she could see, and it didn't seem to have reopened, a fact she was very grateful for.

Letting it be for the present, the young woman opened her soda and waited somewhat patiently for her hostess to return. A batch of nerves struck the young woman as she envisioned just what she might read in the performer's notes. For all she needed to know what Bruce and Zatanna did, the idea of actually reading that information didn't strike the brunette as a very healthy experience. Despite her fears, though, Meara understood she couldn't wait forever to find out just how much of her life was known.

Halfway through the soda and her nervous breakout, Meara heard footsteps from the other room and the rustle of papers.

Zatanna walked through the door looking every inch the doppelganger of her animated counterpart in a white tuxedo shirt and vest with a white bow tie, black satin shorts and blazer, top hat, and shiny black heels.

"Well, how do I look?" she teasingly asked her houseguest, throwing out her arms as though standing on stage, a little black wand in her left hand.

"Just like I envisioned," Meara answered honestly, lifting her can of cola in salute. "Nicely done."

"Thanks," Zatanna smiled back proudly, tugging on the lapel of her jacket and settling into the couch beside Meara. "Here are my notes. You can look them over now or just take them with you. Doesn't matter to me."

"Are you sure?" Meara wondered concernedly, accepting the manila envelope with a trembling hand.

"It's your life experiences on those papers, not mine," Zatanna confirmed, moving to grasp Meara's hand firmly and pull the younger woman's gaze back up. Once sure that Meara held her gaze, the mage continued, "But if you want to talk about anything, I'm happy to listen. Believe me, it won't be any shock to hear or see more tragedy."

"I'll bear that in mind," Meara murmured, swallowing hard against her emotions as they swam up to meet her attempts at calm.

"Good," was Zatanna's only reply, patting Meara's hand once she had released it.

Sitting in that warm, comfortable space with Zatanna's patient acceptance, and the complete lack of pressure, Meara almost looked at the notes right then and there. In view of what might be in them, however, the brunette could not make her hand grasp the envelope's catch. So far in her Gotham life, every day had been filled with something to remind her of the darkness she longed to live without. Opening that folder would ruin whatever progress she made in that vein.

Closing her eyes tightly, Meara denied her curiosity in favor of a less depressing outlook on life.

"I can't… I can't do it right now," she finally admitted out loud, clutching the yellow envelope almost to the point of crushing it and the contents it held.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Zatanna murmured kindly, reaching out to pat Meara's clenched fingers again. "Take it with you. Read it when you're ready to. Not when you feel pressured to do so. Okay?"

Nodding shakily, Meara opened her eyes again and expelled a pent-up breath. "I'd better go. Did Dick ever respond to your text?"

"He's waiting outside," Zatanna confirmed. "I'll help you with your bags again."

"Thank you," Meara tilted her head in gratitude, rising with the envelope in hand to grab bags from the coffee table and walk to the door. Right behind her, Zatanna grabbed the remaining bags and followed her down to the main level.

Dick had parallel parked at the curbside while he checked his phone. He looked up at just the right moment, the sight of Meara and Zatanna making him close the phone.

"You all right?" were the first words out of the young man's mouth when Meara opened the passenger door.

"I'm fine," Meara partially lied, settling into the seat while Zatanna put the other bags in the back of the car.

"Be patient with her," the mage instructed Dick quietly.

"Doing my best," he sighed slightly. "See you, Zee."

"Bye, Dick. See you some time, Meara," Zatanna smiled vaguely in return before she closed the door and walked off in a different direction than they had arrived earlier that evening.

From that point, the ride was entirely silent. Dick looked ready to burst with concern and curiosity, but he never spoke a word.

At last heading up the long drive to the manor some time later, Meara and Dick simultaneously took great interest in the familiar, beaten up little car Clark Kent drove as the vehicle passed around the turn and back down the long stretch of dirt they had just passed over.

"That can't be good," Meara murmured uncomfortably, still staring at where that little tan car had disappeared.

"Considering he left without trying to take you into custody," Dick remarked more darkly than expected, "I think it's actually better than you might imagine."

No longer interested in anything except what missive had brought Superman to the doorstep, both young people rushed from the garage up to the house with every shopping bag in hand. Dropping every single one just inside the entryway, Dick and Meara hurried into the lounge, where Bruce still sat scowling in an armchair.

Upon seeing his adopted son and newest guest, the billionaire turned more upset than he already was. Sensing the information he planned to share was not happy news, Meara took a seat in the chair nearest Bruce.

"Meara, I hate to bring you bad news," Bruce intone with suppressed anger, "but I'm afraid Clark informed me that your possessions have been indefinitely confiscated at the Watchtower."

Confusion crossed Meara's face as she cautiously replied, "But I don't have any possessions. Not here, anyway."

Heaving a sigh, Bruce shook his head, "You do. Although after what happened, I'm not surprised you don't remember… When you were dragged off, you were carrying your backpack. Somehow it became disconnected from you. I found it in the alley where Devil Ray must have first dragged you away. The first things I saw were your comic books. Immediately I knew you weren't average and I went to Zatanna for more information. I kept the comic books from the start, but Green Lantern took the backpack while I spoke with you. I couldn't break through the shield his ring created, but I was able to have Zatanna place protective spells on your possessions. Green Lantern may be keeping us away from your things, but he can't take hold of them either. The only thing he can do is remove his shielding."

"Can he destroy them, though?" Meara anxiously asked.

"No," Bruce answered firmly. "Even if his curiosity doesn't stop him, Zatanna's spells will."

Relieved only slightly, Meara exhaled in one big whoosh of air nonetheless. "At least I won't have to worry about everything getting ruined."

"If you don't mind my asking," Bruce spoke again, some of the heat dying from his face. "What is it you've kept in that box?"

"Personal mementos," Meara murmured, looking at her hands where they lay in her lap.

"We'll get it back somehow," Bruce promised strongly, grasping one of Meara's hands in a reassuring squeeze. "I swear that to you."

"Thank you," said Meara quietly, squeezing his hand in return.

As the night wore on after putting away her shopping, Meara felt ever more tired and worn, thoughts forever resting on what came before and her few precious possessions held far away from her at the watchtower. Green Lantern just didn't like her or trust her - and she doubted he ever would. Given her dark thoughts, the brunette wasn't surprised to find herself eventually nodding off in the chair she had taken up during their earlier discussion.

"Meara," Tim's young voice interrupted the brunette's dozing, shaking her lightly to wakefulness. Blearily, Meara stared up at the thirteen-year-old standing to the side of her chair in the pants and shirt of his Robin costume. "Hey, we're going on patrol. Bruce said you should get some sleep. You've got a big day tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?" Meara tried to remember through a hazy cloud of drowsiness, but the memory escaped her completely.

"Bruce is taking you to Detroit," Tim reminded her patiently, offering a hand to help her up and out of her comfortable seat.

"Oh, yeah," the brunette replied with vague reminiscence, letting Tim carefully guide her to the main staircase, where she finally grasped a firmer sense of wakefulness. "Thanks, Tim. I can make it from here."

"You're welcome," he smiled slightly at their newest resident. "Good luck. I'll see you when you get back."

"See you then," Meara smiled vaguely in return, not anticipating a good trip to any place that resembled her old home.

When she slipped into her pajamas this time, Meara fully expected to wake up with her usual insomnia. What she didn't expect, however, was to never even fall asleep in the first place. After her nap in the lounge, apparently her body had decided to turn traitor and remain wide awake just when she wanted to sleep the most. Frustrated more then ever by her body's fickle habits, Meara roughly tossed back her covers and sat up. In her annoyance, the young woman felt less afraid than usual and stepped over to turn the light on. Bathed in that light, Meara calmly moved to the closet and picked out a loose mocha blouse, fitted dark pants, and nude flats. It was a comfortable outfit that she wouldn't mind falling asleep in, but it was also a work-oriented style.

From the outset, Meara knew she was going to work in the ballroom. Knowing she would have all her communication with her and could easily give a shout to Alfred if need be, that part wouldn't disturb her. It was the getting-there that worried her. Nevertheless, the young woman deliberately collected the few work materials that she'd brought up from the ballroom a few days prior, stuffing them in her pockets. More than gladly, Meara put in the earpiece Dick had taught her to use and turned it on, drawing in a deep breath and pushing herself to leave the Caligo room and rush downstairs.

Without the light of her room, everything had become the same fright as it always had been before. No light poured from anywhere except outside the foyer - a fact Meara bemoaned internally. Skittish and breathing quick, the brunette immediately regretted not bringing the black cell phone with her. Sure, she could use the earpiece to communicate with Alfred if need be, but she didn't doubt he was involved in the others' patrol. More importantly, though, the phone had a flashlight.

Standing there in a growing wave of anxiety, Meara tried to calm her breathing and focus, but it was so difficult in the deeply shadowed mansion.

Just when she had decided to beg Alfred's help anyway, a sleek, rich, teasing voice invaded the silence.

"What's the matter? Afraid of the dark?"

Meara whipped around in a whirl of brown to find Catwoman in all her leather-suited glory, head and hips tilted in opposite directions as she smirked at the young woman from the bottom stair. Meara wasn't even sure how she could see the cat burglar in the dark.

"Selina," Meara blurted out unexpectedly, eyes catching on the high-tech eyewear and sky-high stiletto boots in spite of herself. "Why am I running into Bruce's ex-girlfriends today?"

Wincing at the obvious faux pas, the younger brunette wished the words back into her mouth.

Contrary to her worries, the cat burglar snorted. "Well, kid, you got a flare. I'll give you that. You're the new resident, right? Bruce told me you might be awake… Now, let me guess, just when I get ready to give Bruce what he asked for, he's gone out to play night watchman."

"What did he ask for?" Meara found herself expelling without thought – again – and shook herself hard. While Meara couldn't help feeling better for company, Selina was an unexpected face and not to be lightly trusted. Not that Meara had anything to be stolen, but it was the principle of it all.

"Tsk, tsk," the older woman smirked even more widely, wagging her pointed finger at Meara as though she were a naughty little child. "If he didn't tell you, I certainly won't either."

"Worth a shot, I suppose," the younger of the two got out, feeling her shoulders relax marginally. Distantly proud of the fact that she had neither confirmed nor denied Bruce's whereabouts, Meara ventured another few words, "And while I don't have any reason to trust you… do you think you could help me find a light switch?"

For a moment Catwoman stared, the slight dip backward letting Meara know she had surprised the woman. In all of thirty seconds, however, Selina Kyle laughed out loud – a genuine, pleasant sound Meara almost smiled at – and clicked something in her hand three times. A light flared to life from her leather grip, startling Meara with its sudden brilliance illuminating most of the entrance hall.

"Here, kid," Selina shook her head amusedly, offering up the lighted object as she cleared the last step. "You can keep it. Looks like you need it more than I do."

Reaching out without thinking, the younger woman stopped abruptly as a thought crossed her mind.

"Did you steal it from someone?" Meara needed to know, hand pulled back just enough to make her shrewd concern obvious.

Snorting ungracefully, the frequent thief turned off her device, grabbed Meara's hand and thumped the object directly into it. "Yeah, kid, I did steal it. And you can tell the owner I want a replacement for him skipping out on me tonight."

"Oh," Meara jolted slightly, uncertain why she felt surprise that Selina had stolen from Bruce. "Sure thing. I guess."

"Sleep well… Meara." Selina smirked again, turning to saunter towards the lounge. Over her shoulder, she called out, "I'll be around."

"Wait!" Meara couldn't believe she called out, unaware what possessed her to be so bold – scared or not.

Catwoman half-turned back to the younger woman, and through the tiny light peeling through the entryway windows, she could see the sly woman raise a single brow. "I'm listening."

"No, nevermind. It's stupid. Sorry."

Humiliated by her childish fears and the fact she had called on a notorious sometimes-villain to help her through it, Meara turned towards the hall that led to the ballroom. Her steps were slow, though, and she already felt her breathing start quickening again at the thought of that long, dark path.

"Where are you going, exactly?" The other woman wondered aloud, confusion in her slick voice.

"Ballroom," Meara admitted more honestly than she intended, mentally slapping herself.

"What for?" Selina continued her line of inquiry, disbelief in her tone.

"Cleaning." Irritated with her complete lack of filter of a sudden, Meara ground her teeth together.

"You're starting to sound like Bruce with those two-syllable answers," Selina retorted in obvious agitation, her voice taking on a loud, annoyed quality.

Meara didn't answer this time, unsure what exactly she was meant to say, anyhow.

A heaving sigh sounded behind her, and before Meara knew it, Selina had swept over to her side and grabbed her arm. "I'm walking you to that ballroom and leaving you there. Got it?"

Stunned once again, Meara could only nod as Selina clicked the light in the younger woman's hand and pulled them rapidly along the hall. The trip didn't take nearly as long as it would have otherwise, and Meara barely had time to contemplate the darkness as they hurried through the manor. Selina didn't give her room to keep up, that much was certain.

"There," Selina announced firmly, releasing Meara's arm and reaching into the doorway, which was already open. From inside, a boulevard of sunny lighting blasted them both with blinding luminescence.

"Ugh," Selina groaned irritably, shielding her eyes from the shine. "You know what, I'm forgoing any future babysitting. Give this to Bruce. He seems to trust you."

So saying, the elder of the two handed over a small data disk, which Meara now took without question.

"And no, I didn't steal it. I made it. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."

Meara was unable to repress her smile.

Rolling her dark eyes at the gesture, Selina only responded, "See you around, kid."

"Thank you," Meara found her voice enough to say to the thief's retreating back. A hand tossed into the air was Catwoman's only response as she fled back the way they'd come, sauntering all the way.

With a shake of her head, Meara walked into the ballroom and much more easily settled into the room now that there was so much light. The young woman turned off the light Selina had given her and placed it on the rolling cart with the other materials Alfred had arranged, placing the data disk in her pocket for safekeeping until she saw Bruce again.

Wallpaper never seemed so stubborn, even when trying to peel it off the wall of her old house. Putting the uncomfortable thought out of mind for the time being, Meara pressed onward and cleaned further on the wall space she began days prior.

As she had hoped when dressing for this particular work, Meara found herself dozing intermittently. Given enough startled wakeups, the young woman knew she would eventually just stay asleep. Still, it was a shock to wake up from that eventuality and find herself back in the Caligo room. Someone once again carried her up to her room from a napping session in the ballroom.

Something felt different about this second wakeup, however, and Meara wished she could pinpoint why.

But the answer never came and looking at the clock to read the time, the brunette groaned as the hand touched the five-o'clock mark. Insomnia again. Whatever the reason, she was back to waking up and not falling back to sleep. Sighing into the uncomfortably dark room, Meara wondered when she would have a full night's rest.

Glancing over at the clock again out of habit, the young woman found her eyes drawn to a rectangular shape she almost couldn't see in the great dark of her sleeping space. With the nature of that envelope, Meara decided very easily that it didn't matter how much sleep she got.

Some things would always stick with her. Some things would never give her peace.

Feeling the increasingly claustrophobic atmosphere of her shadowed room, Meara rapidly dragged herself out of bed and grabbed a robe and slippers - something she suspected would become a longtime habit. Slipping out of the gloomy room in a hurry, Meara shivered at the ever-dark halls in fear. Would that ever go away?

No, she decided, sick at the thought. In her lifetime, it would never, ever go away.

Treading the grandiose manor with skittish, anxious feet, Meara begged for a light. Anything to take away the shadows hounding her steps every night.

Following the same old instinct, the brunette turned towards the exterior entry lights and then, of course, towards the kitchen – only to be vastly disappointed. No lights extended from the kitchen into the dining room; no sign of life to guide her in. All stood insidiously black and empty.

Inhaling with difficulty, the young woman cursed her luck.

"Meara?"

Jumping a foot into the air, the young woman in question spun around fearfully to find the source of the interfering voice.

Contrary to all her fears and nervousness, Meara turned to find the lounge filled with light. So absorbed in her fears, and in her desperation to find someone in the kitchen awake and sane, as Bruce and Tim had been on separate occasions, Meara had never once looked towards anywhere else.

Now recognizing the distant voice as belonging to Bruce, Meara headed with relief into the warm light of the lounge. Stepping into the blinding brilliance, the young brunette felt her shoulders settle back with ease.

There Meara found Alfred sitting across from his employer and figurative son, and the eldest of Bruce Wayne's adopted sons. Dick seemed tense on the right of his father, an uncomfortable vision Meara had not been privy to until that moment. Bruce's steel-laced gaze betrayed his rigid agitation and Alfred seemed to wear an expression mixing placation and agreement, a combination probably rarely seen on the butler's face.

Dick noticed their newest resident first, waving Meara over to the seat beside him with a noticeable increase in his upset as he eyed the shades of anxiety in her expression. Bruce took one look into Meara's eyes and clenched his jaw with an emotion the young woman couldn't quite put a name to. Alfred quietly stood and left the three of them alone in the lounge with a passing glance of understanding and a light hand on Meara's shoulder.

Tentatively approaching her intended seat, Meara slowly settled into the chair and waited for whatever the two heroes had to say.

Bruce finally spoke, the words almost a command, "I'm moving you back to the Aerius room. Alfred, Dick, and Tim will move all of your things while we're in Detroit this weekend."

Blinking away surprise, Meara had to ask, "What about Green Lantern?"

"Clark already told him the supposed truth," Bruce waved the issue away. "And even if he hadn't, I wouldn't care. I won't have you reliving old nightmares because of one man's anal-retentive stupidity."

Meara unexpectedly found herself smothering a snort of laughter, amused by his opinion of John Stewart. At least until the startling moment she realized just what Bruce had said. With wide eyes, the young woman replied in an unusually high tone, "Reliving old nightmares?"

While Bruce held his jaw with even further tension, Dick's expression lost some of its severity at the brunette's shaken expression when he replied, "You don't remember dreaming, do you?"

Meara shook her head slowly, the weight of whatever Bruce and Dick must have heard bearing down in full force on her shoulders. The brunette would have said more, tried to verbalize her thoughts, but no sound came through her lips. Opening and closing her mouth several times, Meara finally gave up on speech.

"You said the name Gil," the nineteen-year-old beside her explained softly in lieu of her potential questions, eyes softened in keen understanding.

Struck mute, Meara closed her eyes, lines of pain etching themselves onto her forehead and into the corners around her mouth. Her chest moved in jerking breaths, the suddenness of the movement marginally frightening the young woman.

"How much does darkness bother you, Meara?" Bruce finally asked, voice exceptionally quiet.

Taking a moment to gather her wits through a forceful shiver, the young woman in question could barely reply, "Too much."

"Something happened to you," Bruce continued softly. Meara's eyes found the tight set of his fist where it lay clenched on the dark coffee table, echoing her coiling mind as the comment processed. But her host didn't wait to add, "Something that made you fear the shadows, the dark of a room…"

Shivering a second time, Meara couldn't answer, but her eyes asked the question she couldn't put into words.

"I carried you from the ballroom up to the Caligo Room," said Bruce, jaw entertaining a slight twitch that reminded Meara of the billionaire's alter ego. "You were having a nightmare. I wish I hadn't heard what I did, not only for your privacy, but because it disturbs me deeply."

"What do you mean?" Meara choked out, but her well-trodden memories served her well enough to override any confusion.

Bruce merely stared at her, pushing and pulling the truth from his new charge with only the strength of his piercing eyes. Looking askance, Meara tried to push away the memories before they overwhelmed her, but Bruce was determined.

"You have to tell someone," he insisted even more softly, if that were possible. "It helps, even if it hurts at first. Coming from me, you know that's not a cheap shot."

Slamming her eyes shut against the very idea, Meara shook her head and remained silent.

"Meara…" Bruce murmured kindly, squeezing her fingers once in his own. "Believe me, I know how it feels. The desire, the desperate need, to dig a grave for your own memories and bury them so far you can't remember what they even are anymore."

The words buried themselves under her skin, burrowing through every defense Meara held within herself and tossing it aside like wasted paper.

"He traded me!" Meara gasped suddenly, inhaling as though her lungs vibrated with the motion, a mile-thick dam in her mind breaking free without permission and leaving her grasping at a foothold far out of reach. "My own foster father traded me for a debt. Like garbage, like—useless garbage! And even when they killed Gil, they still took me. They sh–shot my baby brother and the last thing I saw before they covered my eyes was his face! And then it was just black. Black, black, _black_. All dark and dank and silent and all I could see anymore was that destroyed face!"

Meara finally broke into the pieces she had meticulously held together for so long, tears and shivers overtaking her as the words faded into harsh tears on the winds of her last shriek.

Lightly calloused hands firmly grasped Meara's own – not in a move of reassurance, but with understanding born of personal experience. Silence stretched in endless minutes between them, orphans and victims of violence in worlds that bred them like pigs for slaughter.

They sat together in the lounge for an age it seemed, hands clasped in warm, wordless acceptance as Meara's tears also faded into the dark.

At some point a while later, Meara realized she had been wide awake even with her eyes decidedly closed. It was with deep reluctance the young woman rectified the situation, eyes opening to the dawn having broken over the horizon. The windows flooded with bright light and warm colors, a strange counterpoint to the darkness and cold pain that had beleaguered Meara and her companions most of the night.

Stunned by the blinding image, Meara only slowly realized Dick had left sometime during their silent vigil. Further surprising Meara, more tears had fallen in long tracks from her eyes to her throat, the paths now taut and dry.

Bruce, the same as Meara, had his eyes closed in the midst of dawn's brilliance. At some unseen and unheard signal, Gotham's hero reversed that situation. Inhaling abruptly at the vision revealed in the sun's steadily growing rays, Meara watched as the black of the man's pupils retracted, leaving the crystal blue iris to stretch and widen into a veritable ocean of cool color.

"His name was Gilroy."

Clear blue orbs moved sharply from the windows opening onto the sprawling, manicured lawn and back to the deeper, darker eyes of Wayne Manor's new denizen.

Startled by her own words, Meara blinked on a long inhale, allowing the surprise to die away before she continued in some wave of inherent instinct she'd never felt before.

"My brother's name was Gilroy Cameron Nolan," the young woman pressed on quietly, unable to move her gaze from that of her companion. "He could be affectionate and playful. When his birthday came around, he would run and jump on the bed to wake me up – the shock attack, he called it. He loved old gangster movies, and Godzilla, and Jurassic Park… And he loved his family."

"But he loved something else," Meara murmured, gripping the hands still holding her fingers as though her life depended on it. "Up until his last moments, I almost thought he loved that something more than he loved his protective big sister…"

A strangled breath caught in the twenty-one-year-old's throat, and it took every ounce of Bruce Wayne's placid gaze to make Meara continue in a tiny voice, "Gil was addicted to drugs."

Bruce inhaled sharply, but said nothing, leaving Meara empty of everything except the desire to expel every word fumbling through her mind. "It was our foster father's fault. He led him to it… Gil was only twelve when he started using. Ansel was _so_ persuasive; using all of his psychological knowledge to coerce Gil into the same addictions. A little Ansel to follow him around and call him _Dad_ … But Gil got stuck. Like almost every addict that walks the streets, he got stuck without the money to pay his debts."

Meara closed her eyes again, willing her tears back with every ounce of strength in her as she spoke, "A drug dealer came to Ansel's house, looking to get payment. But there was no money for it, and my brother was going to die. Ansel wouldn't dare lose the little boy he'd destroyed… So he offered _me_ instead."

Bruce strangled a sound of fury, choking off the expulsion of noise with all of his willpower. Meara couldn't help but be grateful for his restraint, even as the thirty-five-year-old's grip turned her skin mottled white from the force of it.

"I looked at my brother," Meara whispered painfully, staring at their joined hands, "and I thought there was nothing there for me. No memory of the family we were, or the way I took care of him after Joss died. The way I tried to protect him from Ansel's toxic nature… I started shouting. I just… I was so _angry_. I couldn't believe my own brother would trade me for his drugs."

Grimly pursing taut lips, Meara leaned forward to press her forehead against her arm where it lay on the dark table. From beneath the table's edge her voice rose just loud enough for Bruce to hear, "They started to drag me away while I called out for someone to help me… When I began to panic, when the fear really hit me deep in my guts… my brother came back to me. And Gil, the sweet kid who never yelled and never got angry, suddenly snapped. I don't know what he was thinking or what he believed he could do, but Gil rushed in. He raged at the thugs pulling me away. For a brief sliver of time, I thought we could be free…"

Another slew of tears started to fall from Meara's storm-colored eyes, and she could hardly choke out the whisper that followed, "The dealer shot Gil in the face. I screamed. Just… _screamed_ as his face… Oh, God…"

Just when it seemed the words could be spoken without melting down, Meara found another well of untapped emotion to drown in. Choking on her own tears, the young woman threw herself up from the position against her arm, gasping for air against the tide of grief tearing her up inside.

"It was the last thing I saw before they put something over my head," she cried quietly, shaking at the memories closing in. "All I knew when they finally took it off was more blackness… When the police rescued me, I found out I'd been kept in the basement of an apartment building miles away for an entire week. I was left in that place to die, and if it weren't for an old sink down there, I would have dehydrated. I wasn't healthy. I was dirty, starving, sick, grieving… But I was alive."

In the ensuing silence, Meara could speak no more. Whatever instinct possessed her to tell Bruce Wayne her tale in such mindful detail, it had disappeared as swift as a brisk winter wind, leaving her drained and wet-faced.

Left with the silent, broken young woman he had only gotten the barest grasp of through Zatanna's powers, Bruce eventually murmured, "I don't know why you had to live through that… but I've been there. The shot ringing in the air around you… the blood staining your vision… Knowing the person you love has been broken and stolen… I remember it as clearly as when I was eight years old. That horror never, ever leaves you. You never really heal from it. You just learn to walk around the hole in your life where your entire world used to be. For me, and for Dick and Tim, it was our parents; they were our whole world. For you, Gilroy became that world."

Meara could only close her eyes again as the emotions waged war on her. Bruce's hands, firm and strong like stone, continued to hold her smaller fingers with the understanding she so desperately needed.

* * *


	10. Chapter 9: Stained

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 9: Stained**

An age passed, or so it seemed, by the time Meara's feelings receded to something more manageable than utter chaos. Nodding off for the first time since awakening in the Caligo Room some time before, Meara accepted her exhaustion and its source. When Bruce moved to help the young woman to her feet and back through the lounge, there was no argument from her.

"I have to finish last minute packing. Are you still…" Bruce sighed quietly, hedging his words for a number of moments before he spit out what he wanted to say, "Is this trip going to be too much?"

Struck mute by the idea of Detroit and deliberately searching for a place to match her past horrors, Meara shivered with a resigned sense of fate. She couldn't keep running. It would kill her future, whatever it stood to become in this strange new world.

"I think I need to do this, Bruce," she responded, unfocused on the world around her.

"It's your choice, Meara," he rebutted easily. "I only suggested it because I thought using half-truths as a subterfuge would be easier for you than outright lying."

"It would be," the brunette agreed, tilting her head to look up at the man steadily. "I have to do this."

Staring into her stormy eyes long enough to gauge whatever he needed to see, Bruce nodded and stepped back. "Try to get a bit more sleep, then. Go rest in the Aerius."

"But the Justice League," Meara argued half-heartedly.

"I don't care," was Bruce's quick, confident answer. Meara didn't doubt him. "Go and rest. We'll wake you in time to get ready to leave. I'll be packing just down the hall anyway. And you can eat something en route. Alfred will happily pack something up."

"All right," Meara agreed simply. Bruce Wayne planned his every move, every day and night. He knew what he was doing far better than the young woman did.

"Call out if you need anything," the billionaire nodded once, releasing Meara's hand. "I'll hear you."

"Thank you," Meara sighed in relief, nodding her thanks as they passed through the doorway of the lounge and into the entrance hall. Casting a glance to the side, the twenty-one-year-old caught sight of Dick standing out on the front steps, not even wearing a hood as rain breathed softly atop his head.

Unable to move another step, Meara couldn't help but stare. The pose of a dying man could not be more saddening to look on. Head downcast, hands crossed over his chest, shoulders loose and low, Dick Grayson seemed a force of silent grief.

"I'll be upstairs packing," Bruce muttered just loud enough to be heard, his easy steps falling away to nothing but a pat upon soft plush carpet.

Distracted and absorbed as she was, Meara only half heard the offering, heading mindlessly over to the front doors and slipping through to the outermost barrier. Through the lightly fogged glass, Dick stood ever more depressingly against now-mottled gray skies and deepening rain clouds. Opening the furthest door, Meara didn't quite know what to say, standing in the open doorway with a half-open mouth and a heart full of empty words. Her soul had been expelled for the day, her quota of sentiment and emotion completely spent.

What did one say when their spirit was so drained?

Meara closed her mouth self-consciously. She had no words to speak.

But Dick Grayson could not be said to wait for the world to come to him. In motionless poise, the young man began to speak at last, his voice as gentle and quiet as the still landscape outside the manor, "I can still see my parents… I can see it just as vividly as I did at the age of eleven. They fell from the highest bars… fell dozens of feet until their bodies finally hit the hard ground. I could hear their bones break…"

Meara's tears, somehow as yet unfinished with her, stretched to cover what Dick had suffered in his life, and for what Bruce and Tim had endured in theirs. The similarity, the connection between father and son, their unknowingly mutual recounting… it left Meara shivering with a strange understanding of soul-bound families; a kind of bonding she had never truly found in her own life.

"It never gets easier," Dick murmured understandingly, head turning to glance over his shoulder. "You never get over it. Not really. That was why I trusted a stranger to take me in. I could see in his eyes… he knew. He knew how I felt and that it never goes away."

Wordless and hurting still, Meara stepped into the breath of rain with Dick and let her heart settle into sad, stained mourning as they shared the gray view before them.

Meara could honestly say she never noticed how drenched she and Dick became in the misty rain. At some point, the acrobatic young man had reached out and taken her hand reassuringly. As usual, Dick took the initiative.

Meara couldn't have been more appreciative; her mind fell away from rational thought as the deep, unyielding emotions took precedence.

"Meara?" Bruce ventured quietly from behind them, to which Dick finally turned, Meara's hand still clasped in his.

"You should go change," the younger man commented concernedly, glancing over her wet clothing in worry. "You're soaked to the bone."

"So are you," Meara remarked emotionlessly, but finally turned to face him with blank eyes. "But I suppose you're used to that."

"Yeah, pretty much," Dick half-smiled and tugged on her hand, no real joy in his eyes. "Go on. If it makes a difference to you, I'll go put on something dry as well."

"I'll accept that," Meara murmured, a very tiny, drudging smile teasing at the corner of her lips. It wasn't a happy expression, but the attempt clearly meant more to her hosts than the result did.

"Good," Dick commented simply, turning them both by the weight of their joined hands.

"I'll wait down here," Bruce added, still so very quiet, "Dick, why don't you walk back down with Meara?"

"Sure," the first Robin agreed easily, nodding in acquiescence. Meara allowed him to lead her out of the rain and into the foyer behind Bruce, who made a line to the dining room, presumably to speak with Alfred.

While it was difficult to think much past the emotions still clouding her brain, Meara forced herself to think enough to put together something resembling a matching outfit that she would want to walk around town in. With little interest in her chosen activity at present, the young woman finally grit her teeth and chose a loose orange top and blue-jeans. Still slightly chilled and expecting the weather to be a little cool in Detroit, Meara added a taupe cardigan with an orange, yellow, and brown pattern on the borders. The brunette took little care in roughly matching the cardigan with a plain pair of flat-heeled, tan suede boots and a brown leather tote. The last piece to her wardrobe was the same taupe leather jacket she had worn her first day out with Bruce.

Shrugging at her reflection once she had pulled her still-damp hair into a low ponytail, the young woman grabbed the tote purse she had switched to and walked out of the Caligo room to find Dick waiting for her in a completely dry gray pullover, jeans, and his blue field jacket.

"You ready for this?" he asked in genuine concern, eyes half-squinting at her with concentration.

"I'll be fine," Meara responded, monotone but putting a definite end to the subject.

Dick rolled his eyes slightly, but left it alone and joined Meara in walking downstairs to where Bruce and Alfred stood waiting.

"I've packed you a meal for the trip, Miss Meara," Alfred pointed out in a gentle voice, patting a matching luggage piece that sat atop the rest of the luggage she and Bruce would be taking with them to Detroit, in addition to her black floral suitcase. "Please do eat something."

"Thank you, Alfred," Meara quirked her lips in an imitation of a smile. "I'll try to do that."

Sighing resignedly as though he knew that was unlikely, the butler just nodded once and stepped back.

Bruce took his place just as Meara considered how exactly they were going to be traveling to Detroit.

"Not a road trip," she almost groaned, giving Bruce a world-weary expression he couldn't seem to help smiling over. "I'll get carsick. I promise you that much."

"No, not a road trip," the billionaire actually chuckled at her, grasping her shoulder reassuringly. "We're taking a private jet."

"What about the media?" Meara immediately questioned, frowning. "Seeing me with you on a private jet before I've even started my job at Wayne Enterprises doesn't sound very wise."

"They won't see you," Bruce told her without any doubt. "We board the jet in a completely private section near the tarmac."

"What about when we're in the car?" she pushed more relentlessly. "They'll see us then."

"Not with blackout tinting," Bruce countered instantly, almost smirking. "I _do_ consider these things beforehand, Meara."

Gauging his expression a moment longer, Meara at last sighed tiredly, accepting her fate. "At least it doesn't get knocked around like the Batwing."

Snorting in unison, both Dick and Bruce reached down to grab all but Meara's brown leather tote and black floral case.

Rolling her eyes, Meara lifted her finger to eye level and announced dryly, "This cut didn't suddenly make me an invalid, gentlemen."

"Really? Are you sure it didn't?" Dick gave her a playacted look of confusion, tilting his head awkwardly. "Because… Even if you're sure it didn't, I'm pretty sure it did. Aren't you sure of that, Bruce? Because I'm definitely sure of it."

"I'm sure of it, too," Bruce agreed more simply, but nonetheless playing into his eldest son's humorous speech.

Closing her eyes and rolling her lips inward at this lighthearted approach, Meara finally couldn't hold in her smile. Small, but real, the expression contrasted vastly with a look of exasperated fondness she gave both men.

"Go along, Miss Meara," Alfred chuckled at their sides, reaching out to pat her shoulder and push her towards the doors. "Pull up your hood and let these proud creatures carry the baggage."

Bruce and Dick weren't waiting for permission, which made Alfred's words just the slightest bit patronizing, but Meara just nodded and grabbed her floral suitcase as she did what he suggested.

Settled in the passenger side of the remarkably drab charcoal car Bruce had commandeered to drive to the airport, Meara remained silent throughout their trip, but her mind never ceased to be wildly active. All manner of possibilities for this trip – most of them ending in terrible emotional upheaval she was not prepared for – invaded her mind like wildfire.

"Stop it," Bruce's commanding voice traveled immediately to Meara's eardrums. Looking over in a fraction of a second at the billionaire, Meara swallowed against her fears. "You're just hurting yourself again. Alfred would have my head if I didn't try to put an end to that kind of thought process."

"It's not like I want to think it," Meara countered bitterly.

"I know that," Bruce sighed heavily, glancing over at her again with an understanding expression. "Believe me, I do."

Nodding towards the dark-haired man in acquiescence, Meara decided against further speech on the topic at hand. The world passed by her window in a blur of dreary, gray color that matched her mood on this unhappy sojourn.

When the airport came into view, the young woman had to breathe deeply against a sudden influx of nerves.

"No one will see you," Bruce insisted firmly, accurately reading the newest source of Meara's discomfort.

Sighing against her own anxiety, Meara just nodded and tried to sit less awkwardly in her seat. Judging by the set of her shoulders, it wasn't working all that well, but she had at least tired. Bruce sighed more quietly beside her, clearly having judged the same conclusion.

Meara had to admit, however, that the drive through the airport was the easiest drive she had taken in a long while. No other cars passed except airport loading vehicles and two security guards. Bruce stopped only a minute to scan some kind of card at a moving gate before they drove through to a private section of the airport. The area was, indeed, private, the same lack of other vehicles putting Meara further at her ease. Bruce drove into the side of a large gray warehouse building with a rust-colored door. The wide door slid into two separate sides on cue, then moved back to close in the middle as soon as the car made it past the threshold.

"Sensors?" Meara wondered aloud, the first word spoken between them since first catching sight of the airport.

"Yes," Bruce nodded in agreement, finally putting the car in park. "They're not standard issue, of course, but when you pay for the hangar to be built, you have some room for creativity. We'll board the jet just inside that doorway on the opposite wall. It's a fully enclosed space large enough to allow the stairs room to extend up and down from the doorway. As I said, no one will see you."

Turning back around to face the interior of the brightly lit warehouse to see what he was talking about, Meara noted the doorway in question and realized the whole structure was far larger than it had seemed from outside. Three enormous windows on either side, far and away at the top of the walls structured with black steel, had been shaded with a frosty white glass. To the far right, most of the wall housed a similar set of doors to the one they had just entered – only much, much larger and divided into six distinct pieces rather than two.

"That's the main hangar doors," Bruce explained matter-of-factly. "It's really only used when the jet comes out of – or goes into – storage here. The doors have three settings, each successively wider. It has the same sensors, as well as a manual switch on this device."

Looking to the billionaire's uplifted hand, Meara took note of the small rectangular fob with four square buttons surrounding a raised, circular center. "What are those buttons for?"

"Open, close, emergency stop, alarm," Bruce offered simply, pointing to each surrounding button as he named it.

"And that piece?" the brunette inquired more cautiously, filled with a sneaking suspicion the unnecessarily raised center of the fob had a purpose deeper than structure.

Smirking but barely at the hesitant knowledge in his charge's eyes, Bruce named the last button more darkly, "Self-destruct."

"How do you avoid accidental destruction?" the young woman queried with a raised brow. "It seems a little too easy to hit that center section. Just pressing one of the other buttons could set it off, couldn't it?"

"I deal in shadow and reflection, not sunlight," Bruce remarked cryptically with mild dry humor. Seeing Meara's expectantly raised brow, Bruce sighed and elaborated more plainly, "Do you know about the frequency device on the suit?"

"Last I knew, it was in the heel of your boot."

"It still is," Bruce confirmed. "This central piece is similar to that. When I set off a certain frequency, it links to a device in this hangar. When that frequency resounds in the hangar, it sets off a timed validation. The validation is also set into motion when the alarm goes off. If the code is entered within thirty minutes, the self-destruct is reset. If not…"

"I don't think I need any more explanation," Meara decided rather stoically.

Nodding slowly at her understanding, Bruce finally ticked his head to the side. Taking the sign for what it was, Meara opened her door and stood from the car. Suspecting Bruce would not allow her to carry any more baggage than she had upon leaving the manor, Meara hoisted her brown tote on one shoulder and picked up her floral luggage case in her other hand. Then, quite intentionally, the brunette grasped two luggage pieces she knew were on the lighter side before Bruce could reach them.

"Chafing much?" Bruce commented with well-hidden amusement.

Deigning not to respond to that retort, Meara lifted her brow again and waited for the man to guide her in the right direction. Chuckling slightly, the billionaire hefted one more bag in addition to the four he already carried, shaking his head as he led the brunette to the other side of the hangar.

"Wait here," Bruce instructed, leaving the baggage he carried and walking back to the car across the way. Returning with the rest of their luggage, the dark-haired man set those down next to the other pieces and opened the rust-red door to the boarding area. True to his word, the brightly lit space was fully enclosed in gray stone, the smooth expanse slightly intimidating – while feeling very open at the same time. Shaking off the feeling, Meara followed Bruce's gesturing hand and walked through the door. Thirty feet ahead, the end of the steps sat against the hard concrete ground, leading up into the bright cream interior of the jet.

"Go ahead and pick your seat," Bruce told her, a hint of impatience in his tone despite his still form.

"I'm going, I'm going," Meara reminded him, rolling her eyes at the billionaire's attempted patience, but nonetheless did as Bruce said; he wanted to get going and have their trip done with, which was fine with her.

The jet looked no less bright and creamy once inside the well-lit space; Meara appreciated the lack of darkness for this particular trip. Glancing around at the configuration, Meara chose a seat similar to what Alfred occupied when Bruce returned to Gotham after his seven-year journey in the world. If Bruce needed to say anything to her, or discuss plans about the trip, she wanted to be directly available.

Uncertain where Bruce would place her luggage, Meara set it beside her seat and kept her tote bag in her lap. For a number of moments the jet was mostly quiet, the only sounds those of Bruce bringing their luggage aboard and packing where he decided was best, including the two bags and floral case Meara had carried on. Chancing a few peeks at the process, Meara saw various places to store and strap down the luggage without having to stow it in cargo below.

At last the luggage had been completely stored and Bruce brought over only two bags when he joined Meara, taking the seat across from her.

"We should be ready to go soon," he informed her more calmly and patiently than he had been before boarding the plane, strapping his two luggage pieces along a wall section Meara hadn't noticed until then. "So you're informed, we'll be making an extended turn south and coming back up towards TCIA. It's a fake out maneuver I always use. Even as sure as I am we won't be noticed, I like to keep in the habit of caution."

"What's TCIA?" Meara wondered confusedly, brow furrowing slightly.

"Tri-County International Airport in Detroit," Bruce told her easily, buckling his seat belt and gesturing for Meara to do the same. "What do they call it in your world?"

"Detroit Metropolitan Airport," the young woman shrugged, following Bruce's directive as she talked. "I guess if I thought things like that wouldn't change, I was expecting too much."

"I doubt you were expecting too much," Bruce disagreed. "Perhaps simply not thinking about it."

"I suppose that's it," Meara agreed vaguely. "Although tri-county is the same… are the counties Macomb, Oakland, and Wayne?"

"Clover, Beorn, and Thwaite, actually," the billionaire corrected her patiently.

"What about the major New York area airports?"

"Aside from Gotham Urban Airport, we have Metropolis Network Airport," Bruce mentioned first. "I doubt you have those."

"No, we definitely don't have those," Meara remarked wryly.

"Then there's JFK and LaGuardia," Bruce added. "That's all."

"So there's no Newark or Teterboro," the brunette sighed. "I have _so_ much to study around here."

Bruce smirked a bit. "I think your nose will be stuck behind the computer more than you might have expected."

"Oh well, that means I get more practice with it at least."

"Haven't you used them at college?" Bruce asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Mostly for CAD, with the computer already on and the program already up," Meara shrugged vaguely. "Sometimes I used office programs, but those were probably very different from technology here."

"It did seem to be less advanced than our technology," admitted Bruce casually, "but not so far removed that you wouldn't be able to learn it in short order. You'll be well adjusted by the time you start using technology at work and in classes."

"Could you think up some learning exercises to help me?" Meara suggested thoughtfully. "You know, have me pull up the internet, look up something – like tropical flowers or some such – and then… um… favorite the page and… save a picture from the page? Could that work?"

"I can certainly do that," Bruce promised easily. "I'll have Tim and Dick think of some lesson ideas as well. As a matter of fact, I'll have them focus on the internet and basic applications. I'll look more at the technical and programming aspects. Would you be offended if we start at the very basics, such as changing the desktop background or the system theme?"

"Not at all," Meara shook her head. "I'd much prefer to build from the ground up, rather than finding out I've missed something vital when I'm already halfway there."

"I agree with that mindset," Bruce nodded seriously. "I find that works with most things in life."

"That's true," the young woman agreed just as a white light flashed on the wall near Bruce's seat, accompanied by a dinging sound.

Bruce reached over to press the white button on the wall and replied in a much more billionaire-infused voice, "We're all buttoned up back here."

"All right, Mr. Wayne," a light but masculine voice sounded over the speaker. "We'll be moving to the runway in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Kelly," Bruce responded briefly and turned off the speaker.

Meara couldn't help wondering, "Do you have different pilots each time you fly or are they the same ones?"

"I have a few familiar sets of pilots," Bruce answered with a thoughtful frown. "Occasionally they're unavailable for holidays, vacation time, or family circumstances, so I sometimes have to work outside my venue, but typically I don't have a problem with replacements. I pay them well. And most of the time I put enough… well… _leering_ in the explanation… to prevent too many questions on problematic situations. But the pay usually negates any questions from the start."

"But you don't generally use this jet to do anything outside the typical Wayne lifestyle, do you?"

"No, not anything outside the ordinary for me," said Bruce shrugged, sitting back into his seat. "I have other transportation for that. It's just that I like a fair amount of caution no matter what I'm using this aircraft for."

Nodding her understanding, Meara leaned backing her seat as well. "I really should have known that, but I wanted to make sure."

"Don't hesitate to clarify something with me," Bruce pressed coaxingly, leaning forward again to look Meara in the eye. "Even if something seems as though it should be commonplace, that doesn't mean that it is. Ask. I won't think you're a fool for that."

"Thank you, then," nodded Meara, offering a small smile. "That makes me feel better."

Nodding, Bruce allowed the conversation to lull when the plane began to move.

Waiting out the process of taxiing the runway and taking off only ramped up Meara's nerves infinitesimally. She may not have gotten vertigo in a plane that size, but it didn't mean she wasn't nervous as anything. The young woman didn't dare look out of the window right by her seat, actively pulling down the nearest window shade to protect the minuscule contents of her stomach from possible expulsion. Bruce snorted quietly at her action, but said nothing. Glaring just slightly at the daring – or perhaps insane was more fitting – man across from her, Meara didn't reply.

Only once the plane had leveled out above the clouds did the brunette dare to let her eyes drift towards the window. The sight of white fluff didn't precisely improve her nerves, but at least there were no buildings or lakes rushing by to emphasize the speed and strength of their aircraft as it went on through the pale gray sky.

"Feel free to move around and turn on your devices," the pilot named Kelly said over the speaker, "ETA is eleven-hundred hours."

"Are you hungry yet?" Bruce inquired curiously as the speaker clicked off, "If you are, the meal Alfred packed is right here."

"I suppose I am," Meara answered uncertainly. "At least, I probably need it by now."

Sporting a raised brow at the phrasing, Bruce reached over to unhook the container from its cubby space. With his other hand the billionaire pressed a button on the wall between their seats, a table surface drawing down from the wall to stand between their feet. Bruce waited until the table feet had fully extended before he started to place items from the container on it.

To Meara's surprise, the items were containers of the very same Chinese takeout she and Dick had purchased in such unthinkingly large quantities two days earlier.

"Alfred thought we shouldn't waste it," Bruce explained upon seeing her startled expression.

"I'm not complaining," Meara smiled slightly, "but it's not even warm."

Bruce gave her a particular look, and the brunette found herself embarrassed by the obvious answer to her suggestion. Alfred.

"Ignoring the fact that Alfred warmed everything and stored it in an insulated container just before we left," Bruce said amusedly, "…this _is_ a luxury jet."

"Here I thought you wouldn't see me as a fool," Meara remarked, unfazed by the seeming obviousness of her curiosity.

"That doesn't mean you aren't amusing sometimes," Bruce retorted just as quickly, to which Meara had no words.

Silently, unable or perhaps unwilling to catch his gaze, Meara set about reaching for a plate and choosing the foods she wanted from their selection. Bruce joined her, surprisingly, albeit picking only spring rolls and fried rice. Dick's description of Bruce's healthy eating habits came to mind suddenly, and Meara had to purse her lips to keep from smiling.

Once the food on both plates had dwindled and the table once more placed in its secret slot, Bruce brought them both back to the imminent subject. Meara nearly cringed at the near-apologetic look on her host's face.

"Meara," the dark-haired man began quietly, looking her directly in the eye as he spoke, "Straight to the point… I need you to describe the place where you lived."

Catching a breath, the young woman knew she had no right to be upset over the topic choice. Bruce had to know this so that Meara's story would ring true. …Not that it made the situation any easier to handle.

"It was a house that I—" she started to say, but caught herself before the words could fully leave her lips. "It was a house with a plugged up sink, broken dishwasher, bad air conditioning…"

Bruce noted the abrupt change of phrasing with ease, frowning just slightly. Perfunctory explanations, that was all she had given him. He could break a dishwasher, ruin the plumbing for the sink, tamper with the air conditioner's proper functioning… But as far as the area and atmosphere of the house, he had nothing to truly work with. Nothing to build a _life_ with.

A minute or two passed without anything else having been spoken, until the billionaire finally intervened with a quiet voice, "What can you really tell me about it?"

Closing stormy eyes against the pain pulling her under, Meara forced herself to speak the real meat of her memory, the things that sincerely gave her old home – her old life, for that matter – an honest descriptor.

Pausing to keep herself steady, Meara tried to soldier on, but her voice became no more than a murmur when she finally spoke, "I'm sorry… I don't know why this is so hard. It's just a building on a street. I lived there. I should be able to do this."

Meara swallowed against the challenge of speaking further, shaking her head and looking down at her hands.

Silence filled the jet while Bruce tried to think of some way to help the young woman in his care give the details they needed. Otherwise, their trip was fairly useless. They certainly didn't have time to just walk the streets of Detroit and let Meara house-gaze until she found a worthwhile comparable.

"You can't talk about it, and I understand that," Bruce spoke after a pause, a unique thought hitting him in an unexpected burst of inspiration, "But could you sketch it?"

Looking up in surprise, Meara frowned thoughtfully. "I… Well, I _think_ I could…"

Tumbling in the young woman's brain, the idea gained an ever-increasing significance. There was so much she could never bring herself to say aloud. Not right now. Perhaps never.

As she thought it, Meara reproached herself. Bruce had pulled her brother's fate out of her with shocking ease the previous night.

Even thinking of her little brother had been a terrible pain in her chest every day since he had been ripped away. Saying his name gnawed at her heart, no matter how happy the memory she associated with it. In the space of half a day, thinking that name was no longer such a heavy burden. 'Gilroy' didn't hurt quite as much as it did the day before.

Who knew what the future might hold, if Bruce Wayne could draw her out in such a way? The brunette decided not to test fate any further. Never say never, as they said.

"I'll try."

Bruce simply nodded, "Good."

To the young woman's surprise, Bruce reached into the other bag he'd placed by his seat and pulled out a sketch pad, pencils, and a small pack of other drawing tools. Smiling ever so slightly at his thoughtfulness, Meara took the items with gratitude and settled more comfortably into her seat to begin sketching the house she remembered so vividly.

From across the still-extended table, Bruce watched in fascination as his companion hesitated approximately two-point-five minutes before definitively setting pencil to paper beginning in the bottom left corner, spanning across the page slowly but surely to build the foundations up to the roof of a decent-sized house that must have been built in the nineteen-twenties or thereabouts. The young brunette drew some of the straightest lines Bruce had ever seen without a ruler, a force of instinct and habit she must have cultivated over years of artistic practice. As the drawing grew more in-depth and detailed, Meara drew the pad closer to her, taking her art away from Bruce's sight.

Still he watched her, the heavily concentrated frown on her face, the focused furrow between her brows, and the steady muscle of her arm where she held the pad up to discerning stormy eyes. The process continued on through multiple sheets of paper, Meara seeming unable to stop drawing once she started. It looked cathartic and intuitive for her, this particular set of sketches. Gotham's hero made a safe assumption the aspiring drafter had personally redesigned her last living space in Detroit, hence her excellent memory of its layers and angles. Judging by Meara's rapid, clockwork motions, the billionaire also assumed she remembered her designs with photographic intensity.

It seemed a mere blink of time Meara had been sketching when a notifying ding came over the speaker, actually startling Bruce somewhat. Scolding himself for losing focus, Bruce paid attention to the crew's message along with a freshly surprised Meara, pencil stilled and brow cleared.

"We'll begin landing procedures in approximately twenty minutes," the pilot informed them. "Please secure all belongings and prepare to fasten your seatbelts."

Once the PA cleared, Bruce told Meara calmly, "How far along with the drawings are you?"

"Almost done," she responded, clearly unsurprised by her progress. "One more sketch of the yard and I should be finished."

Unlike Meara, Bruce was taken a bit aback by the actuality of the speed he noticed in her movements. Not allowing the depth of his surprise show, Bruce nodded. "Buckle up and then try to finish before we begin landing. If you run into our descent timing, I'll put away your tools for you. I'm not terribly worried about landing without my safety belt, as you can probably imagine."

Allowing a small smile to surface at his sarcasm, Meara nodded. "All right."

There was still a gleam of involvement in the young woman's rich eyes, and Bruce was pleased her zeal had not abated from the surprise interruption.

Given another fifteen minutes, Meara had completed her sketch with the same proficient methods and tucked it between the pages of the drawing pad with her previous works.

"Good timing," Bruce commented as the belt placard lit up on the wall, taking the tools from Meara to place them inside the bag he'd brought them in.

"We'll begin landing procedures now," Kelly said over the speaker, "Please make sure your belongings are secure and your safety belts are fastened."

Connecting the last secure strap over the bag in his hand, Bruce settled back to strap into his safety belt. Having already done so, Meara reached over to pull down the window shade again. This time Bruce made no comment.

Having faced the feelings when taxiing and rising off the ground did not make it any easier to feel the plane now riding through pockets of mild resistance as it lowered through the clouds section by small section. Only once the jet jolted onto the ground and began to slow as they taxied through the airport did Meara breathe with any comfort. Bruce did chuckle at her then, but Meara rolled her eyes at the gesture this time.

As they made their way around to another private hangar, Bruce watched out of his window with keen eyes until the aircraft had been completely stopped and the stairs finally could be heard opening into the boarding space.

"Welcome to Detroit, Mr. Wayne," the co-pilot came onto the speaker, voice cheerful.

Reaching over to press the white button on the wall, Bruce replied in his 'billionaire' voice, "Thank you, Hollis. You, too, Kelly."

"Enjoy your weekend, sir," Kelly pitched in more calmly than his co-pilot.

Bruce was already out of his seat and releasing luggage from its confines before the speaker cut off, settling every piece by the doorway while Meara far more slowly released her belt and picked up her tote bag. Once again, Bruce only let her carry the tote and floral suitcase. Everything else, starting with the light pieces, he took down the stairs before Meara could even consider reaching for them. Sighing amusedly and irritably at the same time, Meara made her way past the heavy pieces she knew she couldn't handle and then down the stairs to exit the cream-upholstered jet – only to stop in reluctance.

A shining gray Audi seemed at least partially less ostentatious than a Rolls Royce or a Bugatti, but it certainly didn't look unhealthy in the attention department either. Relegating herself back to the billionaire socialite world, Meara started walking again, setting her tote bag in the back seat amongst the other luggage Bruce had placed there. When climbing into the gray leather passenger seat, the brunette took notice of a black jacket on the storage between the front seats.

Bruce made two more trips up to the plane before he joined Meara in the Audi, now slipping a baseball cap on his head and sunglasses over his crystalline eyes. "I arranged for a house under the pseudonym Michael Black. That way we don't have to deal with inquiring staff while we're here."

"I'm glad of that," Meara confirmed, pleased by the ease of not having to deal with a fake relationship – family or otherwise – to cover up whom she and Bruce really were to hotel employees.

"That makes two of us," Bruce remarked dryly, starting the car and turning to head out of the hangar.

The drive was silent as they traveled through the airport and eventually out into heavy traffic. Looking around in interested observation on the trip to the row house, Meara realized the Justice League's Detroit didn't look wholly different from the Detroit Meara grew up in. A few more skyscrapers, a little more modern architecture here and there, but essentially a very similar-looking city.

Bruce finally pulled through a far more expensive neighborhood than Meara had ever lived in, parallel-parking in front of twelve three-story row houses situated nearer to the end of the street. The brown brick facings, red brick side walls, gray stone trim, and second level bay window all espoused a very comfortable charm Meara could appreciate. How Bruce had finagled a row house at the end without essentially 'tipping' the owner confused the brunette, until she recalled his words about the living space.

"Arranged for a house…" she said aloud, catching Bruce's gaze before he could move to open the door. Confused, the billionaire lifted a single black eyebrow in question. Exasperated to an extent, Meara clarified, "You _bought_ a row house? For a single weekend?"

Snorting suddenly at the reason behind Meara's reaction, Bruce shook his head. "Of course. It's more privacy that way. I'll put it back on the market when we're done. At a much more realistic price, too, I assure you."

Scoffing at the dark-haired man, Meara settled for exiting the vehicle and getting her tote, floral case, and two lighter bags from the back seat. Bruce had a smirk on his face while he also pulled luggage from the Audi, his expression only dying off because Meara eyed him like a pest about to be swatted.

Forcing the look from his face, Bruce wordlessly walked up to the front door and unlocked it, somehow not losing the six bags in his grip.

"Utterly ridiculous," Meara found herself grumbling as she walked in ahead of her companion, once again eyeing him like an insect that kept successfully avoiding the flyswatter. Clear blue eyes glittered at her in sharp humor without a shred of remorse. Scowling, the young woman hurried to place her bags down in the entryway, only to stop just inside the black-trimmed doorway and stare at the beautiful work of art that was the interior of the corner row house.

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked her in mild confusion, stopping on a dime behind her still form.

"Nothing," she confessed, just glimpsing the fairly expansive living room and catching the slightest blink of the dining entryway and kitchen doorway nearer to the back of the main hallway. "It's just so lovely. The honey-colored floors, black and white staircase, white board and batten… It all has a very simple charm to it."

"Yes, thank you, Frank Lloyd Wright," Bruce sighed a little exasperatedly. "Now would you please step forward so I can close the door?"

"Oh, sorry!" Meara started, walking further into the house to allow Bruce to pull the black door shut behind him.

"Now you may look around in awe," Bruce offered with quiet instruction, moving a small section of bags towards the staircase, where he turned abruptly back to his companion. "Actually, I just lied. Come upstairs and choose your room first."

"Oh, fine," Meara sighed resignedly, leaving the two bags she'd reached for and carrying only her tote and black suitcase up the black stair treads behind the billionaire.

"Since it's a corner lot, it's more expansive than the other houses," Bruce explained as they stepped off the stairs. The hallway stood empty and spacious, fresh and creamy beige walls opening up the already-wide space even more. "There are three bedrooms and a bathroom on this level, and the same on the third level. The bathroom is at the back, on the left."

"I'll take the front corner," Meara responded almost instantly. "The one with the bay window."

Bruce looked well-humored on her reason for the choice, but made no comment. "All right, I'll take the one at the rear of the house. Truthfully, it makes for a much easier escape if I have to make a sudden costume change. You'll understand if a world crisis hits, won't you, Meara?"

"I believe I'll manage," the young woman remarked wryly, turning to her chosen room when a question popped into her head. "What would you have done if I chose the back bedroom?"

"Taken the third floor," Bruce replied immediately, no hesitation in his voice as he turned to the room of his preference with a natural swagger that Meara couldn't help rolling her eyes at.

Giving up on the billionaire's innate blazing confidence momentarily, Meara walked into her room. The space has been only sparsely furnished; there was a queen-size bed with a white arched frame, a modern white dresser without handles, and white roll shades over the windows. Despite its spartan effect, it was very bright, clean, and livable. Releasing a comfortable sigh at the atmosphere of the home, Meara began unpacking the basic clothes and necessities she would need each day of their trip – dividing the outfits and relative undergarments into separate drawers of the dresser for easy prep in the mornings.

That work completed a short thirty minutes later, Meara turned with a start as something thudded on the floor. Bruce vaguely smiled at her surprise, setting down a second luggage case with purposefully softer thud.

"Sorry I startled you," the dark-haired man said quite genuinely, gesturing at the larger of the two cases he'd brought. "Alfred insisted we bring clean linens and pillows. These are yours."

"And the second case?" Meara wondered, one golden-brown eyebrow lifted in curiosity.

"Art supplies and bath towels," Bruce shrugged. "The towels are one thing I didn't ask the decorators to install."

"I thought you brought sketching supplies in that small case you brought on the plane?"

"Those were actually for me," the hero confessed with a helpless tilt of his head.

"Oh, I see," said Meara understandingly. "Should I put all of that in the dresser as well, or leave it in the case?"

"Unpack it. We're staying three nights, so we may as well be prepared for mishaps. Whether it's an art spill or a scraped knee, we'd want to change the linens."

"That's true," the brunette agreed, reaching out for the larger case to place it on the bed and unzip the top. Flipping it back, she noted the crisp white sheets and pillow cases folded tidily beneath two large, fluffed pillows. "Is there anything else I'll need in here?"

"The rest is mostly for the bathroom or downstairs," Bruce informed the young woman. "Kitchen supplies, utensils, cleaning supplies, general tools, and the like. Anything left after that is for me."

"I'll help unpack for the main level," Meara suggested with ease, "I'll be looking around by then anyway, so we can just meet up in the living room."

"Then I'll get to my unpacking," Bruce decided, leaving her to the towels, linens, and art supplies she began to put away in the second row of the dresser. Art supplies furthest, linens in the middle, and towels at the end nearest the door.

Meara prepared to put off making the bed until she was ready to sleep that night, folding the last set of sheets neatly into the assigned drawer. Upon thinking of what they were to embark on that day, the young woman's fingers slowed to a mindless pace. Planning ahead as she always had, Meara stopped the motions of her hands only to remove that last set of linens with purpose, making the bed with speed and efficiency.

"For a minute, I thought you were going to leave it until later," Bruce's voice quietly broke the concentrated moment as Meara slid one of the pillows into a case.

Glancing up at the cross-armed man where he leaned on the doorjamb, Meara hesitantly responded, "I was going to… but if this goes the way I'm afraid it will, I won't feel any kind of mental or emotional energy to make the bed tonight."

"It might not be that hard, Meara," the billionaire allowed a sigh to escape him. "Since it's not actually the same places, it's highly possible that you'll feel completely different."

"Better to be practical ahead of time than to resent the responsibility later," the young woman murmured pensively.

Unable to argue such logic, Bruce simply nodded his understanding and moved out of the doorway, quietly leaving Meara to the last task she had set for herself.

* * *


	11. Chapter 10: Buried

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 10: Buried**

Slipping pillows into cases and laying an extra blanket over the foot of the bed didn't take Meara all that long, but by the time she headed downstairs Bruce had still managed to get all the main level luggage down before she arrived at the double-wide entry to the living area.

"What would you prefer to unpack?" Bruce asked, pointing to each of six suitcases as he named them, "Kitchen, household, office, utility, toiletries, or cleaning?"

"Hm…" Meara pondered the issue for a minute, finally leveling her finger at each of the three she wanted to work with. "Kitchen, office, and household. I'm not especially sure if there are any items from cleaning, toiletries, or tools that you have a specific place and purpose for, so I'll leave that to you."

"I appreciate your logic," Bruce remarked with a pleased expression, picking up the two middle suitcases with ease and heading towards the back of the house.

Reaching for the large suitcase meant for the kitchen, Meara followed her companion's trail to the back of the house. While two of Bruce's chosen cases lay open across the floor in front of the back door, Meara opened hers right in the middle of the kitchen floor. There wasn't an enormous amount to stow away, thankfully, since they were only there for three days, but it was enough that Meara had to think out what places to use or leave alone in the spacious white cupboards.

Bruce still had one case open by the time Meara had put away silverware, serving utensils, plates, cups, bowls, pots and pans, accompanying lids, and food storage containers in the cupboards nearest the sink. In the left drawer beside the sink, she next offloaded foil, plastic wrap, wax paper, and storage bags; in the right drawer she placed toothpicks, hot pads, scrubbing brushes, dish rags, and dish towels. Dish soap and the drain plug sat on the sink corner and trivets laid out on the counter for easy use. Finishing her rounds by laying out a hand towel and a dish towel on the cupboard handles either side of the kitchen sink, Meara grabbed the placemats and napkins from the suitcase to set on the dining table and carried the empty luggage back to the living area.

"Does it matter precisely where these things go?" the young woman wondered loud enough for her companion to hear as she dug through the case full of every office material known to mankind, as well as the organizational containers to house them in. They had even packed a dry-erase board and four different types of glue.

"Just as long as they're in a practical, useful vicinity," Bruce called back to her, voice muffled.

Nodding even though he couldn't see her, Meara set about arranging the contemporary three-drawer writing desk; from pens and graph paper to a pencil sharpener and binders, Meara made sure everything was organized and tidy. The display stood tall and wide, but Meara felt confident it wasn't cluttered. Even the desk drawers held a very neat and clean array of writing utensils, erasers, a ruler, and various other items.

Finished with her second luggage case, the brunette moved onto the household case. Quite a mêlée of objects had been packed into the suitcase, more odds and ends than strictly household, but Meara began to unload it with the same care as she had the kitchen. After placing green-tinted beige slipcovers over the furniture, it was quite a pain to add matching blankets and pillows. The neutrality was understandable, of course, but on such a thorough green foundation, it now became quite mismatched to the wall color. It didn't help to add brown coasters with a yellow foundation in them, although at least the black clock came off well.

Pursing her lips unhappily at the overall appearance, Meara eventually shrugged and moved on to the rest of the case. Rather quickly, the young woman realized she didn't know where to put anything else in the suitcase. Frowning thoughtfully, Meara called loudly to her companion again, "Bruce, what do I do with all—?"

Looking up as she spoke, Meara stopped instantly when she realized Bruce was already there in the entryway, preparing to take out the empty luggage. "Oh! Sorry for shouting."

"That's all right," Bruce negated her worry, waving it off. "What were you wondering?"

"These odds and ends," Meara explained, gesturing at the open case in front of her, full of batteries, emergency candles, light bulbs, matches, a sewing kit, and two umbrellas. "Where would you want them to be stored while we're here?"

Walking over to look into the open luggage, Bruce glanced everything over with a keen eye. "Alfred must have run out of space in the other cases… Well, the umbrellas can hang on the coat rack, but the rest we'll just place in one of the kitchen drawers."

"All right," Meara agreed, glad there was a simple decision to be had as she carefully arranged the stockpile in her arms. "I'll put them in the one at the end, near the door. It's the most accessible if you're just walking through."

"Let me carry part of them," Bruce insisted fairly, reaching out. "You'll drop the light bulbs with that much in your hands."

Seeing his point, the young woman let him take the umbrellas, batteries, and candles. With his hands being rather larger than hers, Meara sighed and allowed Bruce's weightier load to pass. Leaving everything in the intended drawer, Meara moved back to the living room while Bruce deposited the umbrellas on the coat rack.

"There's that done," Meara announced gladly, staring around at the mismatched living space, only now realizing there were no curtains, but contemporary white rolling shades. "I don't like these slipcovers… Or the pillows and blankets."

Snorting, Bruce remarked, "Forgive us for not being design aficionados."

"Sorry," Meara shrugged.

"How would you design it?" the billionaire asked with some small amount of interest, taking a seat on the white sofa, one arm up on the back of it and his legs crossed casually at the ankle.

Meara would have sworn up and down Bruce was secretly modeling his long-sleeve black t-shirt for a magazine advertisement, but denied herself the possibility of saying so out loud. Humiliated would not even cover half her feelings if she had done so.

Thinking over the matter for a moment, Meara answered pensively, "I like all of the furniture, except the dining chairs. The table is quite nice, but the chairs don't feel modern enough to match it or the rest of the house. I'm not entirely sure on my exact color scheme, but the color of those slipcovers and that odd brown shade would not be included."

"The walls are painted pretty much the same color as the slipcovers," Bruce commented with a raised brow. "You seemed to like that well enough."

"Not _this_ shade," Meara disagreed, coming over to pat the slipcover in emphasis. "This is beige with a very heavy green tone to it. The beige on the walls is based in more of a red foundation."

"All right," Bruce eventually replied, glancing between the walls and the sofa a few times to gauge what his companion spoke of. "It's the same trouble with these brown coasters, isn't it?"

Pleased with his acceptance, Meara nodded, "Yes. There's far too much green foundation in these two colors. For my taste, anyway."

"So you would use the more red-based beige to fill out the theme," Bruce deduced. "But doesn't the black upset your scheme?"

"Not at all," Meara refuted quickly. "Black has a way of contrasting other colors so that they feel larger by comparison. Plus black accents create a lot of visual interest."

"All right, that makes sense," Bruce nodded thoughtfully.

Meara took a seat on the chair across from the billionaire as he thought his way through an itch he couldn't seem to scratch.

Finally he turned to her again, "How would you like to stage this place for sale?"

Startled, Meara blinked a few times before wondering, "Me? You want _me_ to stage this house so you can sell it?"

"You think things out that I would never consider," Bruce shrugged. "Alfred, either. For all that he's lived with interior decorators and party designers these years; he's still a man with limited decorating expertise beyond quality solid wood furniture. Besides, it would boost your resume before you begin work."

Laughing under her breath, Meara didn't argue with him. "If you want me to, I guess it would be fun to do."

"It might take the edge off of home-hunting," the billionaire added more conservatively.

Fidgeting only slightly at the implication, Meara nodded once. "It just might do that."

Having made their decision, the two decided what items to purchase and measured out various dimensions of the house. They soon found themselves driving down the nearest major shopping street, thanks to Bruce's pre-trip internet search on the area. In his black shades, hat, and leather jacket, Bruce pulled them parallel to a small grocery distributor.

Bruce spoke up before he turned the car off, "Avoiding public eyes means we need to cook at the house, which means grocery shopping."

"But of course we don't want cold or fresh items going bad while we're inside other stores," Meara concluded the rest of his thoughts. "You're parking here because it's our last stop."

"Exactly," Bruce agreed, looking pleased with her comprehension.

Pursing her lips in consideration, Meara paused before wondering aloud, "How long do you think it will be before you stop being surprised when I show common sense?"

Vaguely startled, Bruce turned to stare at his companion's attempted poker face for a long minute. Finally he turned away with a glimpse of a smirk. At least Meara certainly thought it was a smirk; it was the perfect kind of moment for a Bruce Wayne smirk.

"Let's get going," Gotham's hero decided without ever offering up an answer, rapidly rising from the driver's side. Meara had no time to respond as tartly as she wanted to over the rush of cars speeding past.

Sighing in annoyance, Meara hurried to get out before Bruce made it around to her side of the vehicle. Still irritated, the brunette shut the passenger door with an unnecessarily loud thump. It wasn't a slam, but judging the billionaire's tightly pressed lips when Meara turned to face him, it was darn close.

"Touchy, are we?" he remarked quietly, and the young woman heard his amusement sharp as nails in that smooth voice.

Refraining from a response to that comment, Meara stepped up onto the sidewalk beside the billionaire and sniffed. "Lead on."

Forcing back what appeared to be another smirk, Bruce led them two shops down the street. Meara had almost reached the door pull when Bruce opened the door and held it open for her to pass beneath his arm. Ducking only slightly, Meara accepted the gentlemanly assistance and walked right into a mixed bag of design. The entire store was a collection of little design areas with differing styles, but somehow all cluttered into the same major area to look like one solid floor space.

If ever the young woman wanted the pick of the produce, this was the spot to find it. Her first ten feet past the door proved that well enough, as she rapidly found a set of contemporary patterned curtains for the main floor.

"Bold choice, don't you think?" Bruce commented, picking up a package of the grass green and linen-colored curtains for closer inspection.

"A good burst of color will add some life to the house," Meara argued calmly, picking up six pairs of the curtains in the length she wanted. "This specific shade of green and the modern pattern are a nice middle ground; not too feminine, but not ultra macho either. The curtains are not completely opaque and it's only in the living and dining areas, so it won't overpower the whole place."

Nodding with a lift of his eyebrows, Bruce left the subject at that, instead searching out a shopping cart for them to use. Meara gladly dropped the new curtains in the metal cart and continued looking. Not a second later, around the other side of the curtain display case, the brunette found rugs in the exact same shade of green as the curtains.

Using the checklist she put together at the house, Meara checked off the rug sizes they needed as Bruce put them in the cart for her.

Once finished, Meara turned to Bruce with a thoughtful frown, pointing at her sheet, "They don't have these two sizes. Do we absolutely have to have them?"

Looking it over, Bruce pursed his lips in thought before replying, "I think we can manage with the sizes we already found. The floors have been treated and finished excellently, so I'm not particularly worried about damage."

Nodding her understanding, Meara crossed out the additional rugs on her list. "This might be faster if we split our efforts. Why don't you look for… dining sets and… side tables?"

"What exactly do you want?"

"Both white, of course," Meara explained, biting her lip as she considered what she now leaned towards. "The side tables are for the bedrooms; something to match the modern simplicity of the dressers, with at least one drawer. I think square in shape, but it depends on the table. As far as the dining set, I figured all white, but that might be a bit too much. Yet the only colors I would think to use are beige, green, or black."

"I'll give it a shot," Bruce tilted his head in agreement. "Keep your phone close to you."

"I will," Meara agreed, patting her pocket. "I do."

Amused, Bruce turned and headed towards the back of the store, where most of the furniture seemed to be located.

Meanwhile, Meara roamed the miscellaneous décor nearer to the front. There she found two more curtain sets – a muted butter yellow sheer for the second floor and a minty aqua sheer for the third floor. As much as she liked a printed green and aqua shower curtain for the bathrooms, Meara decided against it. Too much of her own tastes and the house would begin to feel far too personalized.

Instead, the young woman focused her attentions on curtain rods for the house's surprising amount of windows. Most were too metallic or too dark for her needs at the present, so it wasn't hard to choose a very simple white rod with deeply embossed lines from one end to the other and ball finials.

In the middle of picking up a multitude of simple modern white lamps with pale beige shades, Meara's phone rang gently in her sweater pocket. Pulling out the device to read Bruce's name scrawled across the screen, the brunette hurriedly picked up the phone.

"Yes?"

"If you come towards the back, I have some options for you," the billionaire explained. Turning away from the wall display of sconce lights, Meara took immediate notice of Bruce in his leather jacket beside an unfinished pine table.

"I'm coming back," she answered simply.

Once beside her companion, Meara offered an inquiring expression, to which Bruce nodded right in front of them. Following his direction, the young woman instantly noticed a small white nightstand with square cutout drawer pulls.

"That's perfect," Meara smiled happily.

"Nevermind the others, then," Bruce said in amused surprise.

"I wouldn't want anything else," the young woman informed him, more pleased than she hoped she would be.

"Let's move on to dining sets," the billionaire prompted, gesturing Meara ahead of him towards a small selection of white dining tables. "I found a beige cushioned set, but the style is fairly traditional – especially the table."

Examining the set in question, Meara couldn't help agreeing. "It is pretty traditional. I like the beige, but the style doesn't work."

"Cross that one out," Bruce nodded once, now pointing at another table. "This one doesn't have cushions, but I saw a set of green tie cushions that would match the curtains you chose."

"I don't think I want to put that much green into it," Meara wrinkled her nose disinterestedly.

"Then my last idea is this one," he finished, laying a hand on the last set, "All white, except for the black upholstered seat and back. I found it ironic."

"That looks nice," Meara decided in pleasant surprise. "It does echo the staircase design really well… Yes, I like that one a lot."

"There's one last thing," Bruce added, pulling Meara away from the dining furniture and over to a general furniture section. "I know you were looking for a dressing chair in the bedrooms, and this seems to fit what you would want."

So saying, the dark-haired hero pointed out a Louis chair in pure, clean white with cushioned seat, back, and arms. Meara fell in love with the piece immediately.

"Definitely want that," she almost grinned at the find, running her palm along the soft arm cushion. "Thank you for catching the last piece on the list."

"You're welcome," Bruce murmured, already reaching for the cart full of curtains, rods, and lighting. "They have ten in stock, so there's more than enough available."

"They have enough nightstands, too?" Meara verified, causing Bruce to nod affirmatively. "Great!"

Chuckling at her excitement, Bruce told her in no nonsense terms, "Stay by those side tables. I want to find you there when I come back."

Sighing at his unnecessary caution, Meara nodded tiredly. "Yes, of course."

Rolling his eyes, Bruce headed to an associate who stood restocking a display of candles and diffusers. "Excuse me, miss."

Detecting quite a bit of smarmy charm in the businessman's tone, even twenty feet away, Meara snorted to herself and tuned out the resulting conversation to further examine the nightstand.

"We're set," Bruce announced shortly thereafter, startling Meara into looking up at him. "They'll deliver everything at five-thirty."

"Oh," Meara shook herself, recalling too late that she and Bruce could not possibly transport six nightstands, six armchairs, a dining table, and four dining chairs to the house in their tiny rental. If it _was_ a rental, Meara found herself wondering, but shook the thought off. "We're ready to go, then?"

"Yes," Bruce confirmed. "Now we can get the groceries and then head back."

Stepping out of the shop in front of Bruce, Meara checked the skyline to see the time of day, surprised to find the sun still shining at a two o'clock angle through frequent cloud cover. Staring at the bright but gray sky, Meara appreciated its subtle, unexpected beauty for the first time in a long while. Allowing Bruce to lead the way down to the grocery by way of a hand on her elbow, Meara let her eyes roam the buildings in all their multi-level glory far ahead.

Focused so closely on the buildings, Meara began to realize she appreciated it so easily because she had seen it before. Slowing her walk and losing the gentle smile that had covered her face moments before, Meara came to a stop mere feet from the grocery store.

"Meara?" Bruce queried with concern, analyzing the young woman's face for any sign of illness or fear. None showed, leaving the billionaire in a quandary as people walked past them.

Understanding her own trouble at last, Meara inhaled sharply and swallowed against sudden anxiety. She had been so preoccupied with Bruce's sarcasm and the prospect of looking around the decor shop that the surroundings had passed out of her mind completely. Now they slapped her in the face with sharp clarity.

"That skyline reminds me of my old street," Meara muttered uncomfortably.

"You lived in an area like this?" Bruce asked, more involved now that he knew what her problem might be.

"No," Meara shook her head. "Not like the area we're in… Like the buildings ahead of us. That mix of skyscrapers and low complexes… I used to see it from the hotel where I worked. Whenever I looked at it, I always knew home was close by."

"Much as I hate to say it," Bruce remarked with a sigh, "we need to drive through there."

"I know," Meara muttered unhappily.

"Come on," Bruce encouraged her quietly, guiding her to the car instead of the shop six feet away.

Driving through those high-low buildings left a terrible feeling in Meara as they passed by. The further they drove, the worse the neighborhoods and streets became. Occasional boarded windows, while not horrific in nature, left an unkempt sensation in Meara's soul.

It was the condominiums they passed twenty minutes into their drive that stopped Meara cold.

"Stop!" she called out suddenly, voice hardening with painful recognition of the building colors and styles; even the location of the windows and the railings hit the brunette's memories as powerfully as a freight train.

Bruce slammed the brakes, but quickly eased up his driving as he acknowledged the obvious reason behind Meara's unexpectedly loud voice.

As the dark-haired vigilante pulled to a stop at the side of the road, he wondered quietly, "Are you all right?"

"Not really," Meara answered in a growing monotone, gazing at the confoundedly familiar types of homes around them in deeply-buried despair.

"You lived in a place like this?"

The question really bore no asking, considering the chaotic sentiment playing in Meara's oceanic eyes. Receiving no answer, Bruce decided perhaps explaining what he had seen from Zatanna's efforts would now help this young woman move forward somehow.

"I didn't learn all that much about you, really, Meara," the billionaire spoke after a few long moments, keeping her young, traumatized face in his line of vision as he slowly expounded on what he saw. "I saw you as a little girl, checking expiration dates on canned goods in the kitchen and writing down what groceries your family needed. It was in the middle of winter and you were bundled up in layers of clothing just to keep warm. You were very small then…"

Bruce couldn't help chuckling at the memory of the tiny girl with a pop of curly brown hair – bundled up in a furry blanket tied up with a scarf and scurrying around the kitchen to check dates on the food stored in the cupboards. The latter thought ruined Bruce's amusement; those cupboards had been nearly empty…

"Even then, you were hardworking and determined," Bruce commented quietly, eyes never leaving Meara. "You couldn't have been any older than five at the time. Already independent before you even started school."

Meara looked down at her hands as the thought passed Bruce's lips, the utter sadness in her face striking a chord the vigilante hadn't been aware of possessing.

"My mom felt stress and fear every moment of every day," the young woman pronounced just as quietly, fingers intertwining mindlessly as she released any possible wish of secrecy from this man. "Her dad died in a car accident the year I was born, so when her mom was diagnosed with cancer a year later, she left New York and came to live near us. Mom took care of her all the time, as well as me, and then top that off with getting pregnant again... Her job just wasn't enough, no matter how many hours she worked. If she ever saved any money, something broke or someone got sick or our clothes needing replacing and then the money was gone in a puff of smoke. My father would disappear to California for weeks at a time, and Mom cried when she thought I couldn't see or hear her."

Frowning, Bruce tried to reconcile what he had already learned and some of the assumptions he had made about Meara's past, comparing and cataloging it all over again with the factual version of history he now listened to.

"When I was still very small, he used to take me with him a lot," Meara murmured, a watery quality to her voice. Bruce's frown deepened. "I don't know why he did, but I do know my parents argued about the constant upheaval whenever we came home. Those arguments were terrible… loud, mean… I hated to listen. So I hid. Disappearing – usually with a comic book – to the best hiding spot I could find in whatever house or apartment we lived in at the time. It's one of the reasons I love secret entrances; they were always… sort of an escape."

One of the moments Bruce had seen in the crystal came to mind, something his wondering mind had latched onto with strange vigor afterwards. Truthfully, he shouldn't have held onto the recollection so strongly, but something simply didn't match up.

"You never went outside to escape?" Bruce inquired carefully. "Climbing trees or…"

Barely casting her deep eyes to him a moment, Meara's expression said everything the billionaire needed to know as the brunette went on.

"My father always changed jobs," the young woman responded more darkly than before, casting eyes back to her hands. "He never had enough – if anything at all. We never had money and other children were hardly accepting. On one of those trips to California, my father was at work – or so he said – and I was left all alone with free reign of the apartment and full freedom to go wherever I wanted."

"How old were you?" asked Bruce gravely.

"Four years old," Meara frowned at the knowledge, something Bruce suspected the young woman had done many times since. "I was so young still, but not much scared me then. So I left the apartment and went exploring. To this day, I can't believe no one questioned what a little child was doing wandering the streets, but no one ever stopped or questioned me. Somewhere along the way – I don't even know how far – I tried to play with some kids a little older than I was. This particular group of friends was obviously wealthy and fairly spoiled, but I didn't bother to pay attention. They seemed nice at the outset… I learned the hard way not to accept people at face value."

"What did they do to you?" Bruce nearly growled.

"They told me we were going to play tag," Meara muttered even quieter, leading Bruce to lean in so he could hear her words. "I was ecstatic to finally make friends… But when the game began, they just kept saying 'tag' over and over, hitting me with something every time they said it."

"And no one noticed any of this?" the dark-haired man at Meara's side demanded, still somehow disgusted, even after all this time, by the casual cruelty he witnessed of everyday citizens.

Shrugging more casually than Bruce was comfortable with, Meara replied dully, "They chased me out of the neighborhood, throwing things as I ran and laughing at me for crying. I didn't stop running until I climbed into a tree to hide, but they were long gone by then."

"How did you get home?"

"The owner found me hiding up there completely by accident," Meara explained. "She tried to help me down, offered to get a ladder, but I was still naïve and terrified enough to want _Daddy_."

The full range of sarcasm and venom evident in that single term caused a wince that Bruce barely restrained as Meara continued more forcefully, "I remembered the apartment phone number like clockwork. She called him and told me my daddy would be there soon… It took forever, and it started to get dark, but my father never showed up. The woman ended up calling the police. The officer who helped me down said his name was Nick and he told me stories about when he was a kid."

"And you're father never faced any repercussions?" Bruce asked, although he could already guess.

"He blamed me – said I did a bad thing running away from him," Meara answered bitterly. "We went back to Detroit the next day and he had to guts to ground me for leaving the apartment. My mom never accepted that, of course. And she refused to let him take me on any trips ever again."

A full, tense pause overtook the two of them for a long moment, until Meara ended the tale morosely.

"Not that he ever came back."

Struck mute by the deadened phrase, Bruce concluded in surprise, "He abandoned you?"

"Yes," Meara whispered coldly, but the chill of her anger gave its crumbling way to deep pain that distorted the young woman's face with grief. "A few months later, he packed up everything he owned and left my mom standing on the doorstep, crying. They didn't say goodbye, didn't even argue; he just… walked away."

Meara swallowed hard and turned her face to the window, sniffling the extent of the emotion she allowed to show.

Lost as to how he could possibly move forward in this endeavor with so much pain teetering on his charge's heart, Bruce nevertheless asked questions – it was all he could do in such a dark moment.

"Is this when you started to help your mother?" he wondered lowly, not nearly as curious as he had been before.

Drawing in a breath for calm, Meara forced herself to reply in a rough voice, "Not exactly. Every time they argued, it would end with him planning another trip, which meant more money gone. He would leave the house, so he didn't have to deal with us. And she would sit there trying to lose her upset in figuring bills or figuring out how to buy food for that week, not to mention the month or two he would be gone. God knows _that_ didn't help. So I tried to help her the only way I could understand at the time. I still don't how she did it."

"She had no choice," was Bruce's explanation, a sigh escaping him. "It was do or die. Literally, I'm afraid to say."

Nodding her understanding, Meara went silent once more as the sun glared over the city so similar to her childhood.

Another frown creased Bruce's face as he thought of how much more must have occurred to bring Meara and her brother into the situation they later found themselves caught up in.

"How did you end up with your foster father?" Bruce couldn't help questioning anew. "If your father never died…"

"Maybe he did and I just don't know it," Meara shrugged, another careless maneuver Bruce nearly cringed at while he still saw tears glistening on his companion's face. "Regardless… a year after my father left, Mom took Gilroy and me to visit my grandmother while she got chemotherapy. While we were there, we met Grandma Isla's new neighbor – Joss Sullivan. She was really nice, a very gentle person. Whenever we visited grandma at her condo, I always ran over to talk with Joss next door."

"I think it made it easier on my mom," the brunette smiled sadly, "that I wasn't there all the time. She could cry or complain or get angry without having to hide it from me. Seemed like I was always there at a bad time. Or maybe she just never stopped feeling bad… It was another reason I tried so hard to help her out, even so young. And I suppose… I suppose I thought if I worked harder, tried harder, then my father might…"

Pressing her lips tight against the emotions hitting her, Meara forced it all back down so she could talk further. Now that she had started – now that someone she trusted was listening so intently and giving her freedom to say anything she needed – it appeared the words couldn't really be stopped.

"My mom and grandma died the same year," Meara spit out, hands clenched into fists as he remembered those young days in her life. "Mom's car caught fire. Something in the engine went bad and she didn't know it… I was five, nearly six, and Gil was only four. Grandma took us in for a little while after Mom died, but she followed a couple months later."

"I saw the graves," Bruce admitted softly. "Cameron O'Neill's old headstone and your grandmother's much-newer one side-by-side. How did you get to New York?"

"She wanted to be buried by her husband," Meara commented, voice turning watery all over again. "I didn't get to see the funeral. We were stuck in foster care until our guardianship was finalized. But I wanted to see the graves. It was actually… my birthday wish… that year."

Seeing the emotions finally swell beyond what Meara could rightfully handle, Bruce reached out, as he seemed to be in the habit of doing, and took her smaller hand in his when the tears overflowed. His knuckles turned white, mottled by the force of the young woman's grip, but he let her grieve however she needed to.

An age passed before Meara found herself again, breathing past the memories and clearing her throat to speak.

"Grandma had arranged for Joss to take us in," Meara spoke low and clear at last. "She knew Joss loved us more than anything. She couldn't have known the other side of the coin would destroy us."

"Joss was married to Ansel," Bruce concluded in a black tone. "That's how you came into his care."

"It never made any sense," the brunette shook her head slowly. "He was insane – I could see it, even at such a young age. Everything he did was entirely erratic, angry, and overwhelmed by drugs of some kind. I suppose he wasn't always that way. In their wedding pictures, he seemed normal – happy, even… I don't know if Joss deliberately ignored the changes in her husband, but then she was terribly sick more often than not. Perhaps she didn't even have the ability or the energy to really notice much beyond that."

"Joss was frequently ill?" Bruce frowned deeply, unable to stop his mind running into darker territory. "Are you sure Ansel didn't…?"

Shaking her head, Meara contradicted the idea, "Joss had cancer, too. Grandma Isla was the one who convinced her to try chemotherapy. That's why we met Joss that day at the cancer center. They started to take treatments at the same time."

"I'm glad it wasn't what I feared," Bruce exhaled softly in relief.

"He…" Meara struggled with herself for a moment, but eventually said, "Ansel seemed to love Joss, at times, but…"

"But overall, he was more concerned with himself," the billionaire finished for the brunette, to which she nodded unhappily.

"That's about what it was," she agreed. "When the cancer took her, too, he—"

"Joss died as well?" Bruce couldn't stop himself from interrupting, something settling deep in his blue eyes that Meara could not name.

"Three years after they took us in," Meara whispered, a fresh pain slicing through her. "Ansel was God-knows-where one day and Joss took ill. It seemed like one of her normal bouts of sickness, so I took care of her like I always did, but this time it wouldn't go away. I finally called an ambulance despite her protests, and they had to take Gil and me with them."

Meara didn't appear to have proper words whatever she wanted to say next, but her words finally spilled over with more anger than Bruce had ever heard in her young voice, "Ansel never showed. After four days, Joss died _crying_. I was… I was _furious_ and _terrified_ , and I hated Ansel for leaving her to die that way."

"You clung to her," Bruce detailed with repressed emotions Meara couldn't even label, confessing another moment he had seen with Zatanna. "I thought it was Shannon Nolan in the hospital, but now I understand… You wouldn't let them carry you away from Joss."

A tear slipped down Meara's cheek at the memory. "I barely remembered what my real mom's voice sounded like anymore… Joss was the only mom I had left and I couldn't bear to leave her all alone, even after she was gone…"

More tears followed the first, leaving Meara in another mess of feelings she had to fight.

"We had nowhere to go," the young woman pressed on, eyes closed tightly, "stuck at the hospital where she died. Until finally Ansel showed up twelve hours later, looking like he'd been beaten. And no one questioned him, heaping all of their pity on him, thinking he'd been delayed because of some mugger."

"You don't believe it," the billionaire assumed knowingly.

"I think he was on a drug high, like always," Meara's voice cut the air. "And when he realized he'd left his wife to die alone, he was afraid of what would happen, so he planned a fight or paid someone to rough him up and make it look good. He was crazy enough for that."

"I don't find the other moments I saw all that strange, now," Bruce decided darkly.

"What other moments?" Meara asked wearily.

"There was an argument of some kind between you and Ansel," Bruce responded, attempting to calm himself without much success. "Something about him manipulating everything… You told him to keep away from your brother, and he pulled the father card. You called him out as a foster father in name only – and a terrible one at that. This was the argument that made me think you may have fought him physically at some point."

"I remember that conversation like it was yesterday," Meara grit her teeth. "I'd just found out about Gil using drugs. I spent so much time working – trying to pay the rent and buy food, since Ansel couldn't be bothered. I barely saw Gil then. And he was still using very lightly at the time, so it wasn't surprising I missed it. Still, two years is a long time."

"The first thing I did was confront Ansel," she went on more darkly. "Everything became so clear for me in that moment – the way he'd manipulated Gil into addiction, the way he virtually abandoned Joss at the end of her life, his growing hatred for me, leaving us to practically starve while he enabled himself… I couldn't stand it anymore! I just exploded, shouting and screaming at him all of the things he'd done wrong since I'd known him. But he was still enough in his right mind to use all the psychological understanding he had against me. He encouraged me to hit him, to fight him… but all the while he played me into thinking Gil would hate me for it. And maybe he would have."

"Gil was too messed up to fully understand everything," Bruce told her as gently as he could. "He wasn't even a teenager when he started using, was he?"

"Eleven," Meara offered, throat tight. "At least, I think that was the first time. He said he started smoking weed then, but with Ansel, who really knows?"

"Getting hooked so young would have stunted a lot of his mental and emotional development," Bruce explained further, hating the idea of a young boy going through that. Someone roughly the same age as Dick or Tim when Bruce had first taken them in. Or even… Bruce shut away his thoughts before they carried him to a place he couldn't return from.

"I knew that, even then," Meara confessed, voice shaking slightly. "It was just hard to understand at fifteen. When I finally found someone willing to let me split rent with them, I wanted Gil to leave with me, but he was only two when our real dad left. Ansel was the only father he ever knew. And Ansel helped fuel his addictions, so of course he didn't know how to leave that behind."

"You moved out and split an apartment at fifteen?" Bruce tried to comprehend what he was hearing. Surprise after surprise came from Meara's history. Really, it shouldn't have shocked him as much as Gilroy's drug use, but somehow it did. Or perhaps it was only because it was Meara.

"One of the least unsavory of our neighbors had a nephew living nearby for college," said Meara, unfazed by her own past actions, it seemed. "He was desperate to pay rent and looking to split, so they settled for my four-hundred dollars a month. It was already furnished and I moved into the loft before Gil's birthday could come around on the fifteenth of January."

"This was… two-thousand-eight?" Bruce verified.

Nodding in reply, Meara breathed through an influx of nerves and grief as the next logical event in her life clouded her mind.

"And you lived under the shadow of Ansel's toxic behavior for eight years," the vigilante stated, rather than asked, his voice awash with a deep-seated anger Meara was happy to see directed out of the window rather than in her general vicinity. "Only one of which was spent in a place devoid of his presence."

"I was never really free of him," Meara shook her head, lips tightening against another of countless tears. "I couldn't just abandon my brother, so I always felt Ansel's presence lording over everything that last year. Even if I met Gil at a park or some other, unrelated place, that man's influence continued to wreak havoc between us. It wasn't until his last moments that my brother broke free of Ansel Sullivan."

Left with only tear tracks in the aftermath of her life's revelations, Meara finally ran out of words.

Now they had come full circle, it seemed. All Meara could feel was the same drained exhaustion as she had the night before, but she knew there was little to be done about it. They couldn't give up their trip now that they had started.

"Can you still do this today?" Bruce wanted to know. "You've pushed yourself beyond all limits with our talk, and I would understand if you need more time."

"I don't even have a response to that," Meara informed her companion, leaning back against the headrest tiredly. "Do we even have time to wait my emotions out? If my feelings had a say, I would never be doing this in the first place. Yet here I am."

Sighing heavily at the defeated slump of the young woman's shoulders, Bruce thought out his words with great care. "Ultimately, Meara, your life is at risk if you can't lie well enough to cover your unusual origins and wealth of knowledge. I don't like it any more than you do, but it's the simple truth. Whether or not you could successfully lie about the kind of homes you grew up in or the surrounding areas or your supposed neighbors… that's something only you know. If you truly can do that, then we don't have do this anymore."

As her mind whirled over the idea the same as it had in the preceding days, Meara knew she didn't have any options. "I can't do that."

Nodding once at her honesty, Bruce pulled out his cell phone. "Then I'll call the realtor."

Bruce's words and mannerisms, back to the playacted businessman of prosperous repute, allowed Meara to simply stare out the window at the gray skies and even grayer buildings around them without truly taking in a word the billionaire said.

It was only the clip of Bruce setting his cell phone on the dash that woke Meara from her oppressive emotional climate to turn towards the man.

"A realtor will be here in thirty minutes," Bruce informed the young woman promptly. "While I go inside, I want you to take the driver's seat for safety's sake. I also want you to wear an earpiece to stay connected with me. That way I can hear if anything goes wrong out here. After what happened on your first day, I can safely say it's possible. "

Meara just nodded her understanding, accepting the offered earpiece.

Unable to help himself when faced with her deadened features, Bruce reached out and took her hand again, squeezing slightly in reassurance he wasn't entirely certain he actually felt. It looked to give the young woman some measure of hope, however, no matter how small it might have seemed.

Not another word passed between the two, and before they knew it the realtor had parked and walked inside the condominium, his pressed gray suit matched by his neatly combed auburn hair. Taking that as his cue, Bruce finally released Meara's hand and tapped his earpiece. Meara waited only until the tall man stood from the car to turn her own earpiece on.

Even with a touch of curiosity about what Bruce intended to do about the condo – buy, rent, lease, who knew? – Meara mostly tuned out the entire conversation and left her eyes trained emptily on the space in front of the car. Unfocused as her stormy eyes became, it took the brunette a few blank minutes to recognize that someone had stopped not too far beyond the hood of the Audi with a surprised expression.

Catching the stunned gaze of the familiar individual as his face turned awkwardly suspicious, Meara actually groaned aloud.

It was easy to catch Bruce's unhappy attention from inside the condo when Meara released a brief string of exasperated muttering, "Oh, not now. Not him…"

" _Please_ not John Stewart."

* * *


	12. Chapter 11: Connected

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 11: Connected**

" _What_ are _you_ doing here?" John Stewart's deep, strangely unpleasant voice stretched the five yards he stood away from the Audi, reaching Meara even through the raised window.

Bruce swore softly in the background of the earpiece, bringing the realtor to ask if he was all right. Making some vague comment about bruising his hand, the billionaire pressed forward in the viewing with an edge to his voice that had not been there before.

Sighing at the irritatingly suspicious lantern's attitude and recalling this man had kept her belongings prisoner, Meara wondered just how long it would take Bruce to become Batman and potentially shut the former soldier up with a patented bat glare.

But then Batman shouldn't be in Detroit at the same time as Bruce Wayne unless he had no other choice – particularly with a clever-minded green lantern there to figure out his secret. Thus, Meara realized with mounting frustration that she was left to pick up the pieces until her overseer could arrive. Seeing as Bruce was still being 'sold to' by the realtor without any foreseeable end in sight, the young woman came to understand that might be a while.

Before Meara could answer the rather rude – and rather unintelligently _loud_ – question about her purpose in Detroit, the lantern disguised beneath a gray trench coat stalked up to the driver's side window heedless of any passing traffic.

Faced with the undercover hero's glare, which was made painfully clear even from behind his dark sunglasses, Meara took a deep breath, rolled down her window, and responded truthfully, "My keeper, if you will, is ensconced in a real estate purchase across the street."

"I doubt Batman is making a property grab in the middle of Detroit in broad daylight," was the dark-skinned man's sarcastic response, louder than Meara felt comfortable with.

"Could you be _any_ more obvious? Keep your voice down!" the young woman hissed quietly at the foolish hero, bringing a well-disguised snort from the other end of her communicator that she neatly ignored. "I thought you knew better than to talk about that so publicly!"

The lantern practically jumped back at her unexpected scolding, but he did seem slightly abashed at his hot-headed remarks. If only slightly.

"I still want to know what you're _doing_ here," he pressed firmly anyway, albeit more quietly, not replying to the accusation in the face of his suspicions.

"I just told you," Meara sighed irritably. "The man I was placed with… He is inside that condominium complex across the street. Probably buying it, if I'm not mistaken. Anything _else_ you need to know?"

Glaring anew at her smart-alecky retort, John Stewart pulled off his sunglasses and retorted, "Yes, as a matter of fact. Who's the _keeper_ you've been placed with? Why aren't you in there with him? And why did he even bring you out of Gotham in the _first place_?"

Unable to tell what Bruce would want her to say, seeing as he was still talking with the realtor, Meara decided (not for the first time) to play carefully with her knowledge.

"Unless he gives me permission to say those things," Meara answered cautiously, "I'm going to have to decline to answer."

"Are you trying to play me off?" the man bit back, suspicious clearly rising to new heights.

"No, of course not," Meara sighed more blatantly, this time allowing her full exasperation to show in the sound and in her face. "I'm trying to tell you to wait – patiently – until the man ends his deal and exits the condo. So please, lean against the car, glare at me a little more if you like, and wait there."

Struck vaguely speechless in the face of the young woman's newly determined and unafraid persona when compared to her mildly mousy presence in the Watchtower almost a week prior, John Stewart failed to respond before Meara rolled the window back up and waited out Bruce's sales deal.

Now listening very closely to Bruce's conversation as he tried to hurry the high-strung realtor along, Meara studiously avoided the man who had obviously taken her words about glaring straight to heart while he sat against the hood of the car with his arms crossed.

Thankfully, Bruce's sudden impatience threw the realtor off, if Meara judged his tone correctly, but the money offered for the slow-to-sell complex kept his suspicions down and he made the deal anyway.

Bruce walked out with the man, shaking hands as they parted ways at the front door. Slowing enough to get the realtor out of sight and earshot, Bruce slowly headed down the sidewalk as though engrossed in his phone. The realtor hurried to cross the road and slipped inside his car, leaving soon after. No doubt he was ecstatic to finalize the sale on the property as quickly as possible.

Having taken notice of the tan car disappearing around the corner, Bruce now made a beeline for the Audi, subtly tapping his earpiece off. Meara sighed in relief as she did the same, glad to have the man on her side now. Whatever he said, she would follow.

Through the closed window, Meara heard Bruce's charismatic and prosperous tone as he pulled some mixture of businessman and socialite on the Green Lantern.

"Can we help you with something?" the billionaire enthused, a chipper smile full of well-hidden agitation gracing his handsome face when he looked over at the man leaning against his car.

While the militaristic lantern may or may not have liked people such as Bruce Wayne with their elite, self-interested lifestyles, he at least had enough decency to give a man the time of day.

"Meara and I have… met before. I was just checking to see how her new living arrangements were coming along," Stewart replied a tad less than truthfully, but Meara supposed it was meant more in diplomacy than secrecy as she reluctantly rolled the window down again.

Bruce's clear, strong voice filled his younger companion with calm as he laughed with a practiced disregard. "Oh, you mean my new renovator? Meara's been marvelous with the manor. She certainly has a way with restoration and design. That was why I hired her in the first place."

"Oh, well… Of course she—" the suspicious hero replied haltingly, until he seemed to catch onto something Bruce said. "Ah… I'm sorry, did you say _manor_?"

A tendril of predatory amusement flitted across Bruce's face when he smiled this time. "I did, in fact. I was talking about my home… Wayne Manor. It's in Gotham City. Not sure if you've heard of it…?"

Meara bit the inside of her lip just shy of slicing it open so as not to laugh at the hefty vat of sarcasm Bruce had dumped over his unknowing teammate.

The lantern had obvious difficulty continuing on, but he eventually responded with a voice gone dry, "Yeah, I've heard of it. So... you must be… _Bruce_ Wayne?"

The knowledge made the soldier swallow despite himself, his slight emphasis on the first name something Meara once again resisting laughing at.

"I certainly am," Bruce smiled with a charming kind of sharpness, offering his hand and his gleaming white teeth. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr…?"

"Stewart," the lantern answered with only a little hesitation, accepting the handshake and sending an odd, revelatory glance in Meara's direction. "John Stewart. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

"So, where and when did you meet Meara?" Bruce inquired with apparent confusion and placid curiosity. Meara wondered what he was trying to do, but didn't find an answer before the lantern found his voice.

"The last time she was in Detroit," the other man answered more confidently and easily than his previous responses. "There was a little mix-up in a jewelry store. Our orders got confused. Me and a friend helped Meara out of the situation."

Suitably impressed by his renewed ability to keep secrets, Meara accepted that story as part of her own alibi if ever she was asked about knowing John Stewart.

"Ah, that was good of you," Bruce replied with that billionaire smile, also seeming pleased by the lie.

"Glad to help her out," the lantern ducked his head slightly. "Well, I better not take up any more of your time, Mr. Wayne. Meara, it was… nice to see you again. I'm glad to hear things are working out for you."

"Thank you," was all Meara could think to say, uncertain exactly where they stood now. Gauging the former soldier's face, it seemed he was still confused; about what, Meara couldn't say.

"Again, it was a pleasure, Mr. Stewart," Bruce concluded the 'interview' with another handshake. Nodding, John Stewart walked back the way he had originally come, occasionally taking a glance back at Bruce and Meara with a strange look on his face.

In the wake of the man disappearing around the corner at the end of the street, Meara let out a breath of relief and rolled her window back up while Bruce made his way around to the passenger door and slipped inside the car.

"Well, that went better than expected," the billionaire decided with pursed lips.

"Something about Bruce Wayne being my guardian has him stumped," Meara announced with certainty. "Or… well, maybe concerned is the better term. Not for how you'll treat me or anything, but… something else."

"Why do you say that?" Bruce wondered, intrigued, and Meara had the feeling he knew what she meant.

"After he realized who you were," the young woman explained thoughtfully, "this look came over his face. As though something finally clicked; something finally made sense to him."

"Excellent observations," Bruce nodded in acknowledgment. "I believe your right. I actually think John Stewart finally has an inkling of what made your past so tragic, as I told him it was on the Watchtower."

"What could he determine about my past based on you being my guardian of sorts…?" Meara asked with a frown, thinking over the unclear connection with confusion for several minutes.

Bruce gave the young woman time to think out her own conclusions, never interrupting the thought process she was going through. Looking over that the man who inspired whatever conclusions John Stewart had made about Meara's 'tragic' history, it didn't take nearly as long as she thought to make the connection.

Eyes widening slightly in the face of her understanding, Meara murmured rather quietly, "My family died in front of me."

Nodding solemnly at the parallel Green Lantern now realized, Bruce took Meara's hand for a brief squeeze and nodded at the front window. "Why don't you drive us back to the grocery shop? I'll help you with directions."

Still a little caught off guard by the lantern's perceptiveness and so much of her past coming up in less than a day, Meara took a moment more before starting the car and setting off the way they had come.

A couple of hours later with a car full of groceries for the next two-and-a-half days, Bruce and Meara returned to the row house both ignoring their empty stomachs in order to actually make an early dinner.

"I can't believe we skipped lunch," Meara commented as she hung up her coat on the rack, switching her hold on four grocery bags to do so. Bruce had finagled the other ten, leaving the man still in his coat as he began putting away the goods they'd purchased.

Humming noncommittally, the billionaire finished his organization of the refrigerator and turned to the dry goods on the counter. Following his lead, Meara entered the kitchen and placed her bags on the counter as well. Bruce started to reach for the cold items, but with a scoff, Meara smacked his hand lightly and began the process herself.

Pursing his lips to avoid smirking, the dark-haired man nonetheless snuck the dry goods from Meara's grocery bags and put them up when she ducked into the refrigerator.

Rising from her bent position, Meara noticed the bags moved into a different position than they had been moments before. Narrowing stormy eyes at Bruce, the brunette kept on grasping cold items and tactfully ignored her host's grabby tendency.

Dinner was a simple affair – the duo resorting to turkey wraps, salad, and a fruit mix.

Sipping tea and working through apple pieces from the fruit medley, Meara watched as Bruce looked over the information on his new condominium complex. The idea made the young woman laugh inside, even as she tried not to think of the reason behind the real estate purchase. Shaking herself, the brunette pushed the thought away and refocused on eating.

At last, Bruce exhaled, closing the folder on his property. "It seems even without your situation to back it up, this property is going to be worth the long-term investment."

Meara just nodded, wishing the conversation hadn't led back to this topic.

"A lot of interested renters or buyers have had trouble with the disrepair of the houses," Bruce went on, not seeming to notice Meara's growing difficulty. "That, of course, is something I can afford to have corrected, unlike the previous complex owner. A lot of families could use a better structure for a lower price."

Nodding again without a word, Meara tried to focus on the importance of making better-quality housing for low-income families in the area, but it didn't happen with the ease she needed it to. All she could really see was the building in which her grandmother had died.

"Hopefully there are no infestations hidden in the walls," Bruce remarked with a slight frown, glancing back at his reports with a calculated eye. "None were listed, but of course they could easily have lied to get—"

"Can we please stop talking about this?" Meara finally cut in more sharply than intended, in spite of her attempts at calm, cutting off the remainder of Bruce's sentence.

Starting just barely at the interruption, Bruce took a much closer look at his companion. "Meara?"

"Those condos look just like the one my grandmother died in," the young woman fairly burst with, unable to keep in the reminder any more. "There was a fire and she… she couldn't make it out."

Eyes filling with realization, Bruce dipped his head slightly, softly closing the folder on the condo. "I'll put this away."

Eyes riveted to the table beneath her plate, Meara nodded jerkily.

There was a tense pause, almost tangible, while the young woman attempted to calm herself, but her efforts made little change on the whole. Biting the inside of his cheek, Bruce decided to do what he seemed to do best where his new charge was concerned – talk.

"You know, Meara," the billionaire began to speak, not entirely sure where he was headed in the slow, meandering tone he employed, "there's really still a lot of information you probably need to compare and contrast between our actual reality and what you've known from comic books, films, and television shows. The cartoon show you saw, in particular, seems to be the most heavily related to the lives we're all leading here. Why don't we outline the differences, so you'll be better informed?"

By the time the dark-haired man's words wound down to the question mark, Meara's shoulders reached a state of relaxation matched by the far less wild and crackling expression in her ocean eyes.

"I think I'd like that," the brunette replied calmly, smiling a little at Bruce for his efforts.

"Why don't you go get a notebook and write down any notes you can think of?" the vigilante smiled slightly in return. "I'll finish my meal and we can head into the living area for our discussion."

"All right," Meara nodded and took her empty plate to the sink before heading peaceably upstairs.

The delivery truck arrived in the middle of Meara's efforts in describing the Justice League cartoon, the commotion of the deliverymen stirring the brunette's awareness. Gauging her current activity versus the likelihood of her help being necessary, Meara decided Bruce would come and get her if she were needed.

It seemed in a blink of an eye they both settled on the sofa surrounded by plastic-covered furniture, Meara toeing off her boots in the process and tucking both legs beneath herself before pulling the heavily-scrawled notebook onto her lap, pen at the ready. Bruce, too, had pulled out a notebook and pen, something that surprised Meara.

"I may have a photographic memory, but that doesn't mean I don't like to take notes," Bruce commented on her expression with some amusement.

Shrugging it off as one of the man's more obsessively compulsive behaviors, Meara took up the conversation, "Well, I didn't just write down notes. I wrote down a… plot outline, I guess you could call it… for each episode of the series. Based on the apparent point in time we're at, I only wrote down the first two seasons."

"Reasonable," Bruce nodded his understanding. "Where does that end?"

"After the invasion," Meara admitted unhappily, but pressed forward, "What was the last big event the league faced? I mean… well, I didn't think about this originally, but it was kind of silly for me to reference so much from the show when I was describing Wonder Woman. I had no idea if you'd even experienced any of that yet."

"We had," Bruce offered with a shrug.

Meara frowned in concentration as she gazed over her chronology of the animated series. "Look, why don't I just read the summaries one at a time? You can tell me what events you haven't experienced."

Bruce nodded his consent, gesturing with his hand for Meara to move forward.

"First episode was the situation with the Alien Invaders," Meara started, reading from her writings as she spoke. "The ones J'onn encountered on Mars. Senator taken over by an invader, you being a sacrificial lamb as per usual, the Imperium burned to a nasty sniveling crisp…"

"Definitely did that," Bruce confirmed, a smirk crossing his face at the young woman's interesting commentary.

"Green Lantern surrendering himself to those creeps the Manhunters," Meara added a new episode. "The Oa leaders being secretive and letting Lantern take the frame-up, Flash the questionable but loyal defense attorney, the near-death experience that scared me as a kid, and of course _In brightest day, In blackest night, No evil shall escape my sight_ … yada, yada. Say the whole thing and it sounds cheesy. Very heroic, but still very cheesy."

"Did that, too," Bruce smirked far more deeply at her second episode description. "Well, not personally. Diana and I were absent for that trip."

"Same as the episode," Meara remarked interestedly before moving on, "Situation between Aquaman and his brother, Lord Orm… Orm wanted to destroy or overtake – or both? – the world above. Wanted his brother's throne and power, going so far as to send Deadshot after the king and later leaving Aquaman and his son to a terrible molten death… To which the king showed his heart underneath it all when saving his baby boy – unfortunately by removing his own hand. Still, bravo to the family man."

"Also done," Bruce nodded. "Without the assistance of Wally or Shayera."

Humming her continued interest at the similarities, Meara replied, "Okay, how about Lex facing terminal kryptonite exposure, the Injustice Gang following Lex for his money, Copperhead getting in a fang at you, you getting 'captured' however briefly… Featuring Batman the psychoanalyst and a gorilla with a sudden budget for opera…"

Snorting out loud for the first time since arriving in Detroit, Bruce shook his head, "I realize I'm forced to do strange things in the effort of solving and stopping crimes, but you make it sound far more lunatic than it seemed at the time."

Repressing a smile, Meara shook her head and pressed on, "Um… oh, Wonder Woman's exile. Felix Faust the creep and Hades the even bigger creep… Hades wanted freedom from Tartarus and Faust wanted ultimate knowledge… Amazons turned to stone, Wonder Woman the property vandal, intervention from the boys, zombie skeletons kicking your butts – never thought I'd say that as a real thing – and of course Wonder Woman being a wonder and saving her mother and the world. The end."

"All true," Bruce confirmed, adding lightly, "No Shayera or John that time."

"War World," Meara said with a wrinkled nose, "wherein Superman ripped Mongul's world apart, could have kicked his tail but didn't, gave someone a new vision in life... J'onn was severely weakened on the planet and pretty much turned into a cheerleader for Superman. Granted, he was turning the tide of public opinion, but I still get a laugh out of the way he started yelling _'Superman, Superman'_ in that throaty voice of his. No offense to J'onn, of course."

Bruce rolled his eyes, but nonetheless agreed, "Yes, that happened. No Wally, Diana, or myself."

"Same," Meara nodded again. "Ooh, onto another creep – Grodd… I always want to say that in a really deep voice and draw it out… Groooodd…"

Glancing up for only a millisecond, Meara glimpsed Bruce's expression with flaming embarrassment already bursting into her head.

"Hm… you didn't need to know that," she commented almost blankly, voice dying away to nothing as she buried her face in the notebook for her own security.

"So Gr… ah, the… _villainous gorilla_ …" Meara quickly changed tack, but the damage was already done.

Coming down with an unusually severe cough, Bruce failed to respond, something Meara didn't find very fortuitous considering she knew he was only coughing to suppress laughter.

Meara allowed herself to glance up above the notebook in trepidation, not entirely sure why she felt it necessary.

Sharing her long-suffering gaze for no more than ten seconds, Bruce snorted and then abruptly burst into hard laughter, bending forward as he did so.

Sighing in resignation, Meara let the man's strong, rich laughter fill her ears. It wasn't often Bruce Wayne genuinely laughed and she couldn't get upset at him for it – he needed it too much.

Winding down after a minute or two, Bruce reduced himself to chuckling, giving the young woman a vaguely apologetic look, albeit heavily downplayed by the amusement still shining in those icy blue eyes. "Would saying I'm sorry make you feel any better?"

"Don't bother," Meara answered ruefully. "I don't think you'd really meant it, anyway. Do you?"

Lips pursed thoughtfully, the billionaire didn't reply immediately; his mischievous eyes said all Meara needed to know.

"Nevermind," she remarked with another sigh, much more resigned the second time around, and simply decided to move on. "Grodd used technology from Gorilla City to take control of Wally's hometown – Central City. People were enslaved with min contr— What?"

Finally seeing the confusion on Bruce's face, Meara frowned. "What is it? What's different?"

"Wally is from Keystone City, first of all," Bruce answered. "And second of all, that's the city Grodd took control of."

"Oh," Meara frowned more deeply. "But… Grodd controlled people to gather nuclear materials..."

Bruce already began shaking his head. "They're something of a little sister to Central City, particularly in the way of scientific progress."

"That's a strange difference…" Meara decided, "but I suppose it doesn't really matter in the long run. The overall events still happened, right?"

Nodding, Bruce clarified, "Solivar chased down Grodd, Wally and John helped Solivar follow Grodd's movements, Grodd controlled Keystone, eventually launched the missiles, and the rest of us stopped the missiles in Gorilla City. Clark wasn't involved."

Shaking away the odd feeling this change of location inspired, Meara moved to the next episode. "All right… Aresia and her man-killing philosophy is next up. Second Injustice Gang, Wonder Woman and Hawkgirl have to stop Aresia without you guys, since you're men and obviously you got sick. Hippolyta used as blackmail for Wonder Woman, the queen never told Aresia a man saved her life as a child, and Aresia decided it didn't matter, proceeding to try and bomb the world with her disease concoction for men."

"Done, as you know," Bruce referenced Meara's comment about Aresia on her first day at Wayne Manor.

"Flash, J'onn, Hawkgirl, and Lantern ended up in an alternate universe," Meara explained, the irony not lost on either she or her host as they shared a look, "in which the Justice Guild of America actually exists, but in your world, they were just comic characters that Lantern loved to read about. Totally cheesy episode, by the way… At least until the ending, which was incredibly creepy. Anyhow, Ray Thompson was manipulating the world with his radioactive powers. None of those people in Seaboard City could move forward because he held them at a standstill."

"This situation certainly has parallels for your experience, Meara," Bruce commented dryly. "Minus the… unique mind powers. You're not holding us all ransom are you, Meara?"

Rolling her eyes, the brunette responded tartly, "Are you aging? Yes? Obviously. So the answer is no."

The billionaire neglected further response, leaving Meara to pick up the thread of conversation again. "Ahh, Jason Blood – facing off his once-lover Morgan Le Fey, who was actually a demon using him for power and who cursed him to become the grating demon called Etrigan. Centuries later, she tries to find the Philosopher's Stone, killed a few folks to get at it, and Mordred was the worst nuisance in the history of the world. J'onn was heavily tempted by Le Fey, using his dead family as bait… Flash, Wonder Woman, and yourself also joined the mission. Actually, you started out the episode talking with Jason Blood in a book shop about it all. J'onn almost quit because of his weakness, but Blood convinced him to stay."

"Accurate," Bruce agreed. "Quite the combination, Jason and Etrigan."

"You can say that again," Meara couldn't help saying. "Let's see… everyone except Wonder Woman handled Rex Mason. Lantern and Rex were old friends, Rex and fiancé Sapphire couldn't get daddy Simon's approval, Daddy arranged Rex's accident and he became Matamorpho… Rex believed Lantern did it out of jealousy for Sapphire, Stagg later became this green blob of stuff and Rex became a hero to stop him."

Catching the agreement on Bruce's face, Meara continued to another description, "Vandal Savage changed history by supplanting Hitler and introducing modern technology to the past. Lantern had to return to military training in lieu of his ring malfunctioning, Hawkgirl and Flash disagreed about priorities, Wonder Woman and Steve Trevor romanced a little and rescued a spy, Lantern eventually battled Savage and everyone destroyed the fleet. And you were never actually there. Not like you are here, at least, although your resistance leader counterpart wasn't nearly as different as one would think…"

"So I've heard," the billionaire offered with a wry smirk.

"Gotta love that Superman hug, though," Meara found herself truly grinning at the scene in her mind. "That was actually really, really cute. And funny. Please tell me that happened?"

Giving the young woman something equivocating the stink eye, Bruce offered no answers. Taking it as confirmation nonetheless, Meara smiled and went on, "That's the end of the first season, actually. Season two starts with the mess of Darkseid and Brainiac tricking Superman and the League into defending Apokolips. You and Wonder Woman took a skip, hop, and a jump up to the New Gods, Darkseid and High Father's son switch was just weird, Superman is more of a hot head than people pretend, you made me laugh with your continual sarcasm, and Darkseid is seen as dying."

"Clark was an idiot," was Bruce's snorted comment. "But I won't bore you with the details."

Meara bit her lip to stop a laugh escaping. "Amazo and Lex are the next event. J'onn struggled with humanity, Anthony Ivo died and left Luthor to work on his own survival suit, humanity proved it wasn't all as terrible as it seemed, and Lex ended up defeated by his own scheme. I hope Amazo never returns, by the way. That would be awful."

"We're in agreement on that point," the vigilante nodded seriously.

"Oh, here's another one who better not return to life, so to speak," Meara announced, grimacing as she explained, "John Dee… what a psycho! I can't stand him, and compared to most of the freak shows the team battles, that's saying something. His dream controlling is the creepiest thing I've ever seen. And how his wife died… what she saw because of him… I can't even imagine. Ugh… Love the way the team came together, though, helping each other out like that. The best thing, however, was that humming… _so_ fantastic. It's my favorite part of that episode – the way your stubbornness and determination outweighed his."

"It wasn't easy by any means," Bruce negated with a shake of his head. "But there was no other choice."

"Still incredibly cool," Meara backed off slightly. "Okay, now we have Kasnia, Princess Audrey and Wonder Woman being all buddy-buddy, that little dance in Paris, Savage's return, General Vox being a royal pain, the poor King getting poisoned, Audrey being a stubborn mule, you and Wonder Woman battling the army to the tune of the wedding march, pretty much. Flash, J'onn, and Lantern killed it on that space station and I love the way you and Wonder Woman took Savage and his groupies out… And you still—"

"Don't even think about it," Bruce cut across her sharply, but amusement glittered in his eyes nonetheless.

"After Kasnia," Meara continued as suggested, glancing back down at her summaries for a moment to compose her humor, "the next major event revolved around Despero. He used the Flame of Py'tar to gain followers from amongst the people on his planet– which I still can't remember the name of – and the plot furthered the relationship of Lantern and Hawkgirl, as well as revealing Lantern's previous relationship with Katma Tui."

"Kalanor," Bruce spoke up at seeming random. To Meara's curious expression, the billionaire clarified, "That's the name of the planet."

"Oh, well, thank you for that!" Meara exclaimed pleasantly. "That does sound familiar, now."

"What happened next?" prompted Bruce.

"Justice Lords," was all Meara said, recalling her reference to it with Dick and Tim in the dining room. "You ended up convincing yourself to change ways."

"All true, I'm sure," Bruce nodded her onward.

"Oh, the stupid episode," Meara sighed slightly as she glanced back to her notes. "I mean, it was great, but it was unbelievably cheesy. Almost as much as the Justice Guild situation. At any rate, the Black Heart Crystal ends up controlling whoever possesses it, Flash does commercials and Glorious Gordon ridicules the entire League, questioning their influence. It doesn't help that Flash is quick to anger and slow to be anonymous…"

In an off glance, Meara noted the strange expression on the billionaire's face and rapidly deduced something was quite different about this tale. "What's on your mind, Bruce?"

"Well, in the first place…" Bruce hesitated, "Wally never participated in any form of commercial that I know of."

"He… What?" Meara shook herself visibly. "So this episode is moot?"

"Oh, no," Bruce denied, shaking his head. "Glorious Gordon still questioned the League's influence and the crystal still controlled all of the League, minus myself and Wally… But there were never any commercials involved."

"So then, Flash never went on the show?"

"No, never," Bruce confirmed with a single nod.

"I swear, this just doesn't get any clearer," Meara shook her head like a wet dog. "All right, I guess that somewhat helps public opinion, at least… Next episode is a more spiritual escapade. I think only Superman, Wonder Woman, and Hawkgirl were involved this time. Solomon Grundy gets used by Dr. Fate and Aquaman to stop Icthultu from overtaking the world, essentially. The only reason he's helping them is so he can get his soul back. Grundy dies in the effort of fighting Icthultu, who used to rule over the Thanagarians. Hawkgirl's atheism takes a hit when she sees Grundy's faith, even in death."

"That happened six weeks ago," Bruce frowned slightly. "I remember the reports and… well, Hawkgirl was deeply shaken by the experience as you just implied."

"Based on how recent this is," Meara pursed her lips thoughtfully, "that looks like that end of the episodes. Nothing else really major has happened since then?"

"Nothing. No life-threatening battles or the like," the billionaire concluded confidently.

"Then that's all I have," Meara shrugged.

"I have a few questions, then," Bruce decided, settling more onto his side, arm up on the back of the sofa.

"Shoot," Meara gestured him on.

"First off… and this has really been bothering me…" the vigilante started with a host of confusion in his eyes, "How did you know to call Wally 'The Flash' all this time?"

Blinking rather owlishly for some moments, Meara had to shake herself for the third time, letting the notebook drop with a tiny ' _thwap_ ' sound.

"I'm sorry, did I miss something along the way?" the young woman finally said, frowning deeply "…Isn't that Wally's codename?"

"Not precisely," Bruce answered calmly, lifting an eyebrow. "So the cartoon show calls him 'The Flash' from the beginning?"

"Pretty much _everything_ calls him 'The Flash' from the beginning," Meara emphasized in disbelief. "Or at least shortly thereafter… Hasn't he been in the public eye for a while?"

"About two years," Bruce shrugged.

"What have people been calling him all this time?" Meara exclaimed, stunned by the turn of events.

"The Streak," was the dark-haired man's easy answer, exhibiting a casual shrug, "…or The Red Streak."

"How could a member," Meara pointed out slowly, thinking out each word and holding a hand to her temple to hopefully press an oncoming headache out of existence, "of a team of very _public_ superheroes – the rest of which all get called by their chosen codenames – just… _not_ get called by his chosen codename? It doesn't make any sense, Bruce!"

"We have a…" Bruce tried to begin, sighing slightly as he thought out the proper words, "…a penchant, if you will… for saving people in times of disaster and chaos."

Meara scoffed at that terminology, bringing a tiny smile out of her host as he continued, "Most of the time, in the aftermath of those chaotic and dangerous situations, we try to leave as quickly as possible. If we need spokespeople to address what choices we made or how long it took or the number of casualities, Superman and Wonder Woman often step forward. Neither of them are afraid of the attention or the pressure; Clark is simply used to it after all this time, and Diana is a royal trained for public duty and speech since birth. Lantern isn't averse if needs call for his services, but he prefers to just fight the good fight, so to speak. Wally, Shayera, and J'onn certainly aren't going to step up willingly. And I definitely don't put the mask out in public in such a manner. Not considering the controversial nature of Batman and the crusade I've forged, it's completely against my security standards."

"But that still leaves the issue of Wally being the only hero whose actual codename isn't used," Meara argued.

"Not exactly," Bruce debated in return. "Remember J'onn isn't even called by any codename. And Diana hasn't actually _chosen_ her codename. I'm fairly certain she never planned to use one and still doesn't. She just doesn't concern herself with what the public calls her. As far as Wally is concerned, his powers leave many different impressions on the people who witness it. Moving in a 'flash' is only one of many variations on the idea of speed, energy, and movement. Without a direct inference by the hero himself, Wally's codename will be whatever first hit the public's mind when they experienced his speedy heroics."

"Wait a minute… but when you first asked me… ' _how did you know_ '?" the brunette wondered, frowning again. "That sounds like he _has_ been called 'The Flash' before."

"Shortly after starting the League," Bruce expanded informatively, "Wally noticed some of the media about 'The Red Streak' being one of the other heroes helping Superman with the Alien Invaders. He was irritated by the moniker and planned to seek out a media outlet to correct it with his personal preference – 'The Flash' – but between Superman and myself, we convinced him it was unneeded press attention that might come back to bite him if he kept flaunting himself in front of cameras. It's always a possibility. So he chose to allow the title. Personally, however, he asked if the team would refer to him as Flash. That's how we view him and think of him, even if it never seems to go public."

"But he got right in front of the cameras and gave his opinion on Superman disarming warheads!" Meara tried to reconcile what she was hearing. "While the Invaders were in control of the Senator and convinced the UN to agree to the disarmament plan?"

"Wally never gave his opinion," Bruce disagreed. "Particularly on the news."

"You might have missed that news report," Meara pointed out futilely, already realizing the near-impossibility of Batman missing details like that.

"I keep track of endless media and news sources every minute of every day, without ceasing," Bruce remarked more seriously. "My search and tracking parameters include some of the vaguest terms and phrases regarding the League's or my own activities. On that point, I'm as obsessive and as much of a drill sergeant as anyone can possibly manage. With Superman's incredibly public presence all on its own, I have to be. Otherwise, we'd end up with people publishing very educated hypotheses on Superman's identity every other week. Before the League formed, it wasn't as difficult for him to keep the secret."

"Really?" Meara wondered a little doubtfully. "Saving people so publicly, with all those amazing powers, the seeming unstoppable force he can be?"

"In spite of his notoriety," Bruce detailed with deep concentration, "at the time, Superman was still very much on his own; it didn't seem quite as terribly militaristic for him to zip around the world saving people. With an entire team full of super-powered individuals, it looks more like marshal force and less like saving grace, which always leads to ten times the media attention. Because there are then more clues to be had, that, in turn, results in more people making all-too-well-informed guesses."

"It does still amaze me that Clark gets away with his identity switch at all," Meara shook her head, exasperation crossing her face. "I mean, the guy looks just the same under those glasses."

"It's not his glasses," Bruce explained, "but his bumbling, wayward, human persona that creates the illusion of Clark Kent. Although, admittedly, the man Clark – rather than the mask of Superman – is generally the more real of the two personas. Unlike myself."

"That's not really true," Meara disagreed with him. "Both sides of you affect – and are a part of – your innermost nature. The same with Clark. You just spend more time cultivating the Batman side and he spends more time cultivating the Clark side. Being Bruce Wayne is easier than being Batman and being Superman is easier than being Clark Kent – mainly because both Bruce Wayne and Superman are so straightforward."

"What do you mean by that?" Bruce inquired, the interest in his gaze prodding Meara forward with more energy.

"Consider, for a moment," Meara began again, "what Bruce Wayne and Superman are known for… On the one hand, the image of Bruce Wayne is a splurging businessman who drinks too much and romances too many women. On the other hand, Superman's image is that of a seeming goody-two-shoes boy scout who always defends justice. There are gray areas for both personas, but overall they do the same things every day. That's why they're _known_ for something; it's almost the only thing people see – or hear about – them doing in their life."

Bruce looked ready to interrupt, but Meara held up a hand begging his patience and the man's mouth closed a little reluctantly.

"Now, look to Batman and Clark Kent," Meara continued. "Both personalities have so many facets it's like looking into the center of a diamond and trying to pick the most significant angle. They're not recognized upfront as being a particular way. With these two personas, people get to see many sides of them rather than just a select few. There isn't an easy definition of who these personas are, quite unlike their opposing identity. Whenever the so-called mask – Bruce Wayne or Superman – becomes too stiff and restricted to handle what the whole of the man's nature is experiencing, the less controlled persona emerges to enable the man's inner nature to handle what's happening."

"Then you admit one persona does, essentially, control and outweigh the other," Bruce assumed.

"It's not a single persona ruling over another," Meara disagreed again. "As I said, it's all one, single nature, just that the two major personas of that nature are different enough to seem totally disparate. Ultimately, whatever side is less controlled and more relevant to the person's mindset will come more naturally and freely to the nature as a whole. Really, it's more… choosing your battles, I suppose. Most of the time, the more upfront persona can handle whatever general situation is occurring, but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty private details and the very personal struggles, the deeper persona – not the only part of the whole nature, mind you, just the freest and most natural part – has to be accessed in order to fully process whatever is occurring."

The thoughts turned around and around in Bruce Wayne's head like a well-oiled machine, the heavily-concentrated mind working visibly in the billionaire's cool blue gaze while he stared at nothing and contemplated everything.

"My point," Meara considered with focus, "is that no matter which persona of a man's nature you examine, neither is pure darkness nor pure light. No one is, not even you and Clark. You appear diametrically opposite, but both of you –and both _sides_ of both of you – have varying levels of light and dark; what makes you so different is your outlook. Superman seems to be pure light because Clark Kent's outlook is more optimistic. Batman seems to be pure darkness because Bruce Wayne's outlook is more pessimistic. _That's_ where you're in diametric opposition – outlook, not nature."

"One's outlook, it might be argued," Bruce responded, clearly preparing for a debate once more, "is a product of one's nature. Or a part of that nature, in and of itself. The chicken and the egg debate, you might call it."

"I have come to accept a certain philosophy about the mental and spiritual makeup of a person," Meara changed tack as thoughts rushed through her mind, "so let me explain that first off… A person has an overall _nature_. That nature is composed of different _personas_. Most people have a dichotomous nature, so generally there are two major personas in one person. In a typical case, one persona is lighter in tone and the other persona is darker in tone. Notice I didn't call one dark and one light… I say that because a person's entire nature might be darker or lighter in the first place, leading to their two personas having two different levels of darkness or two different levels of lightness, rather than a strictly light level and a strictly dark level."

Bruce waited in a strangely patient fashion for Meara to expound upon her ideas, looking very comfortably reclined.

"So, a person having one nature, made up of two personas, then has an _outlook_ ," Meara went on more enthusiastically. "The term outlook, as I see it, has a complicated definition. One part of an outlook is the way we see the world around us. Another part of an outlook is how we view ourselves. Again, this is a dichotomy... Now, a person's outlook – that combination of our views of self and of the world – determines which persona we identify more strongly with, as well as how we utilize our overall nature in our lives."

"That sounds more like nature versus nurture," Bruce determined pensively. "In that case, it boils down to what defines a person's nature. Which is, of course, an entirely different debate."

"But nevertheless a relative one," Meara commented immediately. "My brother and I were both raised in the same households by the same people and we both endured the same lifestyle, so our natures might be very similar. Yet we nonetheless held very different outlooks on life and what was important therein, leading us to make different choices."

"You didn't have the same experiences, though," Bruce interceded. "Gilroy didn't travel with your father to California, or face those children in the rich district, or end up stuck waiting for your father to show up… Ansel treated Gilroy as though he was special, but by contrast, Ansel bullied and belittled you. Gilroy was hooked on drugs, you weren't, etc. So, yes, you would obviously have taken away two separate outlooks on the way life treated you. Based on your philosophy, however, I would venture to say you both had very different overall natures, as well."

Stuck by that truth, Meara sat back a moment to think out her counter-argument. The brunette quickly realized an intensely personal connection that would certainly illustrate her point. It just wasn't an analogy she felt particularly comfortable using on Bruce.

"What is it, Meara?" Bruce queried knowingly.

"There's an argument I feel would make my point to you very clearly," the young woman in question started with heavy reluctance tempered just barely by a deep need to know, "but there's something I would need to verify first… If it's true, I can almost guarantee it's not something you would want to talk about."

"You may as well say it," the vigilante tipped his head to the side as if to say 'oh well' and offered Meara an expectant look.

"Well, it's about… the Joker…"

Bruce's jaw stiffened so quickly Meara thought he nearly cracked a tooth in the process.

"…Or …not," the young woman retracted almost beneath a whisper, shrinking somewhat into the sofa beside him and trying to babble into a random (hopefully better) topic off the cuff. "Okay, so I was wondering about the vehicles. Do you have one like a tank? I mean a tumbler? I mean, that would be cool. And this one idea that a really neat bike is part of the tumbler and can come totally separate. That's neat, too. Except that the tumbler can't run without two of its wheels, of c—"

As the young woman laughed, the sound a thorough conglomeration of nerves and discomfort, a hand descended abruptly atop Meara's own and she jumped. Looking up from her skittishly down-turned face, the young woman found Bruce now gazing at her in measured patience and buried understanding.

"Ask."

Startled, Meara fought with herself over the questions buried in her mind for a long moment, until she realized it would only be more difficult the more she became an integral part of this new world.

"Did he destroy Harvey Dent?" she murmured the question anxiously.

Breathing in deeply, Bruce closed his eyes and fought within himself as long as Meara had when divulging her past. At last, the billionaire opened his eyes and piercing blue filled with wretched pain stared back at her.

"Yes."

"Did Harvey become…?"

"Two-Face," Bruce whispered, guilt licking at his hard expression.

"Bruce…" Meara bit her lip, fearing this question more than any other, but knowing she needed to make sense of things. After a painful, awkward pause, Meara finally asked, "What about… Rachel?"

That name undid every part of Bruce Wayne's hitherto untapped composure, and his forehead crumpled with lines of loss.

"She did exist," Meara whispered sadly, almost bitterly for this twist of knowledge. She had never thought Rachel Dawes would exist in the same world as Dick Grayson and Tim Drake and the Justice League. Yet she had. And clearly, she had been lost.

"Two-hundred-and-fifty, fifty-second street…" Bruce forced out, "was where her existence ended. Because of me. Batman brought this on her."

"No, the _Joker_ brought this on her," Meara spoke up determinedly, "Organized crime brought it on her. People unwilling to change the system did. But not Batman. Not you."

"She was going to be with me," Bruce said through gritted teeth, "If Batman could end, if he could stop existing. But I failed to stop what needed to be stopped. And she paid the price."

Horrified that Bruce Wayne was just as guilt-ridden and self-loathing as she'd feared, that he still believed in Rachel's promise to be with him once Batman ended, Meara turned her hand upwards into the larger one still laying over it, squeezing Bruce's fingers tightly.

"Rachel didn't understand what Batman is," Meara gently told him. "She didn't understand that Batman is a knight. A knight battles evil all his life. It's the knight's lifelong mission to see evil brought to justice. Just because evil doesn't wear a mask or face paint or a cape, doesn't mean it isn't just as dangerous and crazy. If Batman had never existed, Gotham would have been destroyed by the League of Shadows, wouldn't it?"

Hesitating, Bruce finally had to agree, "Yes, it would have."

"And if Batman had never existed," Meara continued, "the Joker would have ripped this city apart from the inside out. Wouldn't he have?"

Bruce struggled mightily with himself, frowning so severely his brows nearly disappeared into the sharp lines on his forehead. At last, Bruce's voice quavered just a little as he answered, "Yes."

"Then Rachel's death can't possibly be your fault," Meara murmured, hard-pressed to tell if her word made any true mark on the vigilante's thoughts.

Rather than debate further, Bruce leaned against the back of the sofa in sheer exhaustion over the past and despondently pulled an arm over his eyes.

"I will always feel responsible for her."

Hesitating several minutes with the words floating in her mind, Meara finally got up the courage to make her point and hope it would pull Bruce out of his depression for a time.

"As much as I hate to do this while you're hurting," the brunette began in a soft murmur, a deep sigh soon after escaping her while she picked and chose her words to avoid further pain where it could be avoided, "this is why I wanted to verify what really happened… You and Harvey Dent faced the same loss. Rachel was the end of your futures, as you both saw them at the time. Based on my theory, you and Harvey both seemed to have the same situation of two darker sides of the same coin."

Wincing at the unforgiving pun, Meara added, "I'm sorry for the unintended irony… But what I'm trying to say is the two of you seemed to respond most strongly to the same persona in your dichotomy – the darker one. Even before he fell, Harvey had a fairly pronounced darker side. Wasn't his initial response to Rachel being targeted rather dramatically dark?"

"Tormenting the Arkham inmate in the ambulance," Bruce sighed deeply, agreement ringing in his tone, though his arm never left his eyes.

Meara fought to finish her comparison without wincing again, "You had a different outlook from each other. Remember, outlook shares views of self and views of the world… So while sharing the same affiliation for your darker persona, the two of you had very different outlooks. Diametrically opposite, in fact. You thought lower of yourself and higher of the world, so you gave the world a second chance and put aside your own pain to help the world on that path. Harvey, on the other hand, thought higher of himself and lower of the world, so he refused to give the world a second chance and decided his pain was the most important. Both of you lost Rachel and reacted in anger to that loss at first, but when it counted most, your _outlook_ proved you were very different from Harvey Dent."

At long last, Bruce removed the arm from his eyes and turned those pain-filled orbs of icy blue onto the young woman at his side.

"I'm not saying I fully agree with your theories about me or about Harvey Dent," the billionaire confessed, not beating around the bush. "Yet the fact you've put so much thought and analysis into the topic makes me want to examine it further. You're not just spouting loyal fanaticism; this is a real philosophy you've cultivated and believed in. That gives it a credence most such ideas wouldn't inspire in me."

Realizing that was as close to a thank you as Bruce Wayne could arrive without overstepping some personal boundary he had long ago arranged for himself, Meara nodded in acknowledgment of his sentiments and allowed the subject to drop.

"We've come a long way from discussing a cartoon show," the young woman said idly, watching the vigilante's profile as he laughed quietly through his nose.

"I never thought I'd be discussing spiritualism and philosophy with a twenty-one-year-old from another world," Bruce remarked, the dry humor in his voice reassuring Meara she had not gone so far in her convolutions that he could not return to himself.

"I'm not exactly a typical twenty-one-year-old," Meara commented ruefully.

Snorting far more humorously than he had seemed capable of moments before, Bruce replied, "You're not a typical _anything_ , Meara Nolan."

* * *


	13. Chapter 12: Staged

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
Harley Quinn (Harleen Quinzel) has a history inspired by the _Suicide Squad_ movie. While I don’t like much from the Snyder DC films, I do appreciate what they did with Harley and Joker.

> **Chapter 12: Staged**

"You know, I've been wondering something."

The first words Meara and Bruce had spoken in nearly thirty minutes didn't sound nearly as profound as Meara imagined when they entered her mind a minute prior.

"When don't you?" was Bruce's quiet remark, but upon catching the narrowed eyes of his companion, the billionaire backtracked ruefully, "What have you been wondering?"

"Which villains actually exist in your world," Meara answered, allowing her eyes to return to their normal position.

"Compared to the cartoon show?" Bruce attempted to clarify with rare confusion. "I thought we did that earlier?"

"I don't mean the Justice League cartoon," Meara corrected him patiently. "I mean the Batman animated series."

"Are they vastly different?" Bruce wondered with a raised brow.

"Well, since it's focused specifically on Batman and Gotham," Meara continued to explain, "it has a whole slew of villains who aren't in the Justice League cartoon."

"Reel them off," the dark-haired man offered with a nod of interest.

"How about Penguin?"

"Yes, he exists," Bruce nodded. "He's not as invested or as powerful as he used to be, but he still works the underworld occasionally."

"As he used to be?" Meara asked in confusion.

"Oswald Cobblepot was once a psychopathic king pin in the underworld of Gotham," Bruce explained pensively. "When I was a teenager, he was at his prime. When I became Batman, he was more of a reclusive hiring post for other criminal fraternities. He was so well connected by then, you see, that he could get anyone the kind of person they wanted for a big job."

"Does he have a limp?" Meara inquired with suspicious eyes and a tilt of her head.

"How did you know that?" was Bruce's curious yet knowing question.

"There was another TV show I'm not sure you knew about," said Meara in continued vexation and awe. "It was called – ironically enough – _Gotham_. It described another version of your history and the origins of the insane criminals who later populated Gotham in the comics. Penguin, or Oswald Cobblepot, was a weak coward who became a king pin, as you said. His leg was damaged and he walked with a limp. They called him Penguin because of it. Later he took it on as his pseudonym so he could claim power over their bullying."

"Sounds like the same man," Bruce confessed dryly.

"Is he small or big?" Meara asked.

"He used to be very thin," the billionaire described. "But after his last stint in prison ended in early parole for good behavior, his career dwindled and he sat in his mansion virtually all the time. Weight gain was mostly inevitable."

"Anyone named Fish Mooney ever exist?" Meara questioned with dislike, the subject leading directly to that particular identity.

"Not that I've heard or read of," Bruce negated, shaking his head.

"Let's see, we've already discussed Sacrecrow, Joker, Two-Face… Um, how about Harley Quinn?"

"Definitely," Bruce sighed in annoyance. "She spread Ellipse around Gotham last week. Made a complete wreck of half of the city's homeless population and a good chunk of the rest of the city, as well."

"How did she become one of the insane?"

"She was the psychiatrist assigned to the Joker in Arkham," Bruce sighed even more darkly. "He charmed and seduced her, somehow, tortured her into insanity during a breakout, and convinced her to leap into a vat of acid in his name. He saved her, apparently, and they've been devoted ever since."

Shuddering in disgust, Meara moved on, "Poison Ivy?"

"Locked away in Arkham,' Bruce verified gladly. "Barbara helped me track her, actually. They were friends for a brief time when Ivy was still researching. After she changed for the worse, Barbara couldn't let her go on like that. So she came to me to stop her."

"I can't remember if that's more like the cartoon or one of the movies," Meara frowned thoughtfully. "Oh well… What about Mr. Freeze?"

"Dr. Victor Fries," Bruce cleared up. "His wife Nora had a fatal degenerative disease and he tried to use cryogenics to freeze her and then revive her, having killed the diseased cells in cryo-sleep. But the police and I caught onto him, and when he was caught in a trap, Nora Fries switched out his final cryogenic formula for an older version that didn't work. Once he tried to revive her, she didn't warm, but cracked like glass. Victor then froze himself without hope of return."

Shivering at the similarity, Meara shook herself. "Another one like the Gotham show. Although in Gotham, you were a pre-teen when this happened."

"Well I definitely wasn't in this world," Bruce confirmed.

"Clayface?"

"He exists, although he is confined to Arkham for now. Not that I think that will hold him forever."

Shivering at the idea of a man could shift and reform to such an extreme, Meara moved forward again, trying to put the thought out of mind. "Riddler? Mr. Edward Nygma himself?"

"Never heard of him," Bruce admitted, stunning Meara.

"Well, that's unusual," she commented. "Still… hm… Bane?"

"No," Bruce shook his head. Meara tried to divine any secrecy on that count, considering how much seemed similar to the films, but Bruce looked very genuine.

"Huh," Meara paused, thinking. "How about Hush, Thomas Elliot Jr?"

"No one that I know of."

"Killer Croc, Mad Hatter, Victor Zsasz?"

"Zsasz is an assassin with an affinity for knives," Bruce finally agreed on a villain. "He carves a count of his victims onto his own skin."

"That's the one," Meara confirmed with a wince. "How about Hugo Strange?"

"He was killed some years ago," said Bruce simply.

"Let's hope he stays that way," Meara couldn't help remarking.

Snorting, Bruce nodded her onward.

"I already know about Falcone and Maroni… What about Phantasm or Firefly?"

"Firefly, yes," Bruce agreed. "No Phantasm, though."

"Um… Red Claw? She was interesting."

"Not that I know of."

"Hmm… I don't have many left offhand," Meara pursed her lips. "Oh, Court of Owls?"

Lifting a single eyebrow in disbelief, Bruce gave his answer without actually saying anything.

"That's all I can think of for now," Meara shrugged. "Intriguing changes, I have to say."

"I wouldn't know," Bruce snorted again. "And on that note, I think we should get some sleep. We still need to search for a similar house tomorrow and stage the house."

"I'll go for that," Meara smiled awkwardly, not looking forward to the house hunt at all.

The feeling did not go away when the young woman woke from her comfortable sleep the next morning. A night without insomnia? It was very strange, she admitted to herself, dressing in a pair of violet capris, a white top with an orange and violet floral graphic, orange flats, and a neutral cardigan. Regardless, even a comfortable night of reset could not detract from her negative mindset.

For all Meara's worry, however, Bruce eased her mind and her heart by immediately changing plans over the last bits of breakfast.

"I don't think you need to come with me, Meara," the billionaire offered calmly, polishing off the last bite of egg on his plate. "You can work on decorating and staging the rowhouse while I use your sketches to find a suitable house. How does that sound?"

Barely withholding a relieved sigh, Meara eventually replied, "I think that sounds excellent."

"Call me if you need anything," Bruce stressed firmly, rising top drop his dishes in the sink. "I will pick up no matter what."

"Okay," Meara nodded her understanding, finishing her toast while her companion moved to grab the folder of sketches from the coffee table and headed into the entryway.

"And if there's anything too heavy or awkward for you to maneuver," Bruce turned one last time, the sounds of him pulling on his black leather jacket as he spoke, " _don't_ try to move it. Hm?"

Lips pursed in restrained amusement, Meara just nodded her agreement.

"I'll see you at lunch," Bruce nodded once and turned to go.

"What sounds good?" Meara called before the billionaire could step outside.

"You choose," the dark-haired man returned, closing the door behind him before Meara could reply.

Shaking her head, the young woman rose and headed to the sink to wash the dishes and decide what lunch would consist of later that day. After prepping chicken, cutting up a selection of vegetables with expert precision in spite of her still-bandaged finger, and setting potatoes on a low bake to last out the morning, Meara finally set herself to the task she had been asked to do.

While it was fairly simple to place things where she had already envisioned them the day before, Meara took her time and put good effort into making the row house look its best and most livable. It had to appear comfortable and inviting while still remaining clean and functional.

When it came time to move the nightstands up to the second and third floors, Meara realized with resignation she had been outclassed in a ratio of strength versus weight. They were the only pieces she had yet to place; from curtain rods and dressing chairs down to bath rugs and lamps, everything else had been placed. She had even replaced those ugly slipcovers and pillows with a better beige color.

Looking over the design she had made, not including the nightstands still wrapped in plastic, Meara felt decently satisfied with her work by the time Bruce walked in the door at lunchtime.

"How did it go?" Meara dared to ask despite her misgivings on the subject, leading Bruce to sigh as he removed his coat and walked over to where the young woman stood with hands on her hips.

"Not well," the billionaire told her frankly, taking a seat on the sofa and offering up the folder of sketches for emphasis. "I couldn't find anything like this design. Not through any of the realtors, at least. I just don't have time to go searching street by street, either. Our window of time is limited."

"Oh," Meara muttered, discomfited, and moved over to a necessary seat in the new desk chair, one hand slipping into a fist.

"Isn't there any more information you can give me, Meara?" Bruce wondered, ignoring tact in favor of function. This was a necessary part of Meara's story, after all. "I really do need to know now. Details can't wait anymore. How did you come to have the house? Where was it located? Which parts did you redesign?"

Shifting highly uncomfortably at the rapid-fire questions her host threw at her, Meara stood abruptly from her seat and moved to the front windows, crossing her arms as she did so.

"Meara?" Bruce promoted more quietly. "…Please?"

"It was an overhaul. We reworked t—" Meara started abruptly, then stopped immediately, realizing her mistake all too quickly. She had become much too complacent spilling her guts to Bruce Wayne the past two days.

Raising both brows in a decidedly compassionate expression of surprise, Bruce repeated softly, " _We_?"

Closing her eyes, Meara breathed deep in her chest for a very quiet moment. There was nothing to be done, she supposed. What had she thought the previous day? Never say never? The young woman almost snorted sarcastically at herself. There in that very same room they had sat when she blurted almost her entire life story to her keeper. And yet 'never' had resounded in her mind before then, however distant the insinuation had been.

Opening her eyes to the world again, the brunette could see just how long Bruce was willing to wait her out. Not angrily, but with the same understanding and patience he rarely seemed to show.

In a murmur, Meara found herself offering one more truth she had not wanted to speak, fist curling against her thigh as she did so, "After… After I was rescued – from the apartment complex… I met someone."

"I wouldn't have pegged you as being ready for that," Bruce murmured in return. "Mentally and emotionally, I mean. Besides, you were still so young."

"I wasn't ready, really," the young woman listlessly shrugged the shoulder of her loose hand. "He was a police officer. When he saw me after the rescue… and the way they largely ignored my problems, Ansel's guilt, Gilroy's…. death…. He held me up when I was at one of my lowest points."

"You've been speaking in the past tense," was Bruce's soft comment.

Meara looked down at her clenched fist with a deep, pained furrow dividing her brow; she tried to open her mouth for further speech several times, throat working but no sound escaping. Bruce waited with enduring patience until the young woman found her voice.

"He disappeared… looking for Ansel," Meara choked up, clamping her eyes shut again. "He must have found him... but… there was no way he survived the encounter… Not after the evidence they found. And it was all—"

"Not your fault," Bruce interceded fiercely, but Meara just shook her head firmly. "He was a police officer, Meara. And by the sounds of it, he was a good one. He saw the department's mistreatment of your situation, the way you were abused, the loss you just lived through, and he felt for you. Not as a matter of business, but as a human being. And he wanted to find justice for you by finding the man who mistreated you and led your brother to his death. He made a choice, one you could never have made for him."

"It doesn't matter what choices he made," Meara whispered painfully, using a familiar phrase for which Bruce could find no argument, "I'll always feel responsible for him."

Meara turned and moved swiftly towards the kitchen, unable to meet Bruce's eyes as she passed the sofa. The clangs and tings of pots, pans, and dishes flooded the billionaire's ears in the silence of the room. With no words to ease the pains left behind, Bruce sighed quietly and joined his charge in her work.

The kitchen remained clouded in the same vigilant, hyperaware silence as lunch progressed from final prepwork to making a real meal with the foundation Meara earlier laid out. Bruce took the selection of cut vegetables and built a simple sauté to enhance the vibrant, sweet yet tangy citrus marinade Meara created.

Dinging from the oven later broke Meara from her efforts at chopping fresh fruit with a tiny start, leaving Bruce a remarkable opening to ease their atmosphere.

"Don't cut your finger," Bruce remarked in the quiet as he tossed the salad, eyeing the young woman slyly before she could turn to the oven.

"Don't shout in my ear," Meara retorted instantly, staring at his smug face from the corner of her stormy eye.

After a momentary stand-off, both allowed a tiny smile to flash across their faces, and returned to their work.

Meara's choice of baked potatoes stood the test of any chef Bruce could imagine, topped with fresh parsley and scallions, diced tomatoes, shredded cheddar, and sour cream.

"As you must have noticed," Meara commented with much sarcasm as they set the table, adding a plate of citrus-marinated chicken as she finished her comment, "my fingers are still perfectly in tact."

"Then you must also have noticed I spoke very softly," Bruce added in the exact voice he described, setting down the bowl of sautéed vegetables with a smirk.

Placing the salad bowl rather harder than necessary on the table, Meara forced back a small laugh and sat down with her equally sarcastic companion, who added the small bowl of fruit in the center of the dining table and began a quiet lunch.

Given a new state of calm after their joint, therapeutic efforts at making a meal, Meara decided rather uncomfortably she couldn't hold back anymore. If Bruce was to help her succeed at keeping the most important secrets they had, she would have to help him in return. Finding a house to call 'her own' in a technical sense was the first step.

"I'll have to come with you for the house hunt," the brunette announced without fanfare, bringing Bruce to gaze at her while he took a helping of chicken and vegetables.

"Are you sure?" Bruce wondered calmly.

"I can tell the realtor what kind of house the original was," Meara answered, looking down at her plate awkwardly. "I don't remember it well enough anymore to draw it, but I can tell them the historical details."

"If you're positive, then that's we'll do," the dark-haired vigilante nodded, leaving the suggestion open-ended.

"I'm positive," Meara repeated, far more confident in demeanor than a moment prior as she finally looked up at her host again.

As he often seemed to do, Bruce stared into those oceanic eyes for a long while, attempting to divine something even he appeared to feel confused by. Eventually, he nodded almost imperceptibly, leaving Meara with the distinct impression Bruce Wayne reached yet another unspoken conclusion of her past and her character.

Shaking off the unusual feeling, Meara returned to her meal in the hopes of enjoying it before nerves and anxiety settled too deeply over her.

Lunch passed by all too quickly for the young woman, leaving her taking deep breaths to ease into the discomfort somehow before she left with Bruce. Not that it worked, but at least she tried.

"Ready to go?" Bruce asked her, pulling on his jacket again.

Slipping into her own jacket, Meara shrugged, discomfited. "As I'll ever be."

"Fair enough," the billionaire shrugged as well, leading the way out into the fall weather once more.

Three realtors ended up working with the two of them over their house search, but at the end of a very long and trying two hours, they still hadn't actually found a three bed, two bath, two-story house built in the nineteen-twenties. The realtors assured them both that there were houses like it in Detroit, and that they would surely find one available in the current housing market. Regardless, Meara still felt she had expended so much energy and emotion, only to come back empty-handed.

"How did you ever afford such a large home, Meara?" Bruce found himself asking. His tactless questioning had returned full force, it seemed.

"It was a very cheap foreclosure," the young woman answered quietly. "He bought it for us after my roommate bailed."

"How much did you redesign?" Bruce continued curiously.

"Pretty much everything," Meara explained simply.

"Well, they'll find the closest thing to it," Bruce promised to no one in particular. "And soon. The money I put into their pockets will make sure of that."

Hoping for a quick end to the process, and her unhappy memories, Meara failed to respond.

"Why don't we get back to the row house?" Bruce suggested, finally ending his questioning with a gaze in Meara's direction. "I'm sure we can find something to do. If nothing else, I can place the nightstands."

Nodding, Meara once again failed to speak, mindlessly fingering the strap of her purse.

Giving up on conversation, Bruce continued their trip exactly as he said he would; by the time both of them had settled back in the house and Bruce had put out the nightstands in every bedroom, Meara sat on the sofa and found her notebook to start doodling.

Bruce's soft, easy footsteps barely penetrated the brunette's ears as the man himself entered the living area with a laptop under his arm.

"Meara, I have a suggestion," the billionaire spoke, regretting the slightly raised volume of his words in the silence of the house when Meara started.

"Sorry… What suggestion?" the young woman questioned, voice toneless.

Tapping the computer in his grasp, Bruce explained, "Start learning about computers."

By the way Meara's young face lit up with comprehension and clarity, Bruce knew he'd made the right choice before coming downstairs.

Bruce took the lead only for so long, displaying the basic foundations of his laptop system, which was far more advanced than most anything Meara would use at Gotham University or Wayne Enterprises, leaving her well-prepared for any lesser operating systems, even in the event her training was incomplete by the time she attended to either work or classes.

Gotham's fairest, wealthiest bachelor sat back in comfortable acceptance as his charge finally breezed her way through all manner of personalization, updates, and system settings on the laptop under her fingertips. There were few things the young woman could ruin by accident that Bruce couldn't repair with ease, so the idea of letting Meara run free for her exercises wasn't difficult by any means.

Not that the brunette did any damage by the time their realtors called in with five matches for their house hunt. Judging by the expression of buried dread in Meara's stormy eyes, Bruce suspected engrossment in her task had been the reason for the lack of accidents on the computer.

Regardless Meara's reticence, the two of them shut down their computer training session and bundled back up in jackets and shoes to attend the first showing on Randolph Street.

Meara's wrinkled nose and pursed lips made a clear indication of disapproval, even from the sidewalk. The rich red home, built in 1930, did seem much too modern even compared to Meara's renovated designs in her old world.

"I don't think we need to see this one," Bruce commented to the realtor before they walked up to the front porch. "Sorry about the extra trip."

"That's perfectly all right!" the realtor reassured his clients pleasantly, eyes sincerely congenial. "Some people just know when a house isn't right for them. Let's go on to James Street. It's actually just around the block, built in nineteen-twenty-one."

The second home, while vaguely similar to what Meara had described of her original house, still put a dissatisfied look on her features. Bruce turned to the realtor with another apologetic expression and they turned away from the white structure without a word.

When they parked in the driveway of a light blue home on Fordham Court, Bruce watched as interest and dread pooled equally in Meara's eyes. Biting her lip, the young woman stepped out of the car and joined them in walking up to the royal blue front door.

"This home was built in 1924," their graying guide explained as they walked into a badly deteriorated living room. "I do think this one is closest to your description, although it's quite a bit further from the college area than you wanted. But the neighborhood is what you were looking for – lower crime rates, nearby bakery, and a decent-sized yard. A lot of the interior was gutted, but the bones are there. Lots of room and the basement was waterproofed back in May."

Bruce didn't know quite how he should play the situation yet, seeing as Meara still gazed around at the details of the interior, so he did his best. "Why gut the place? It seems like it's in fairly good condition overall."

"Ah, I believe there was a rental dispute," the realtor offered a bit uncomfortably. "The renter was very unhappy with the way the courts decided, so they say. But that's conjecture; I have no real proof."

Nodding with false interest, Bruce merely followed the other man through the house, listening to details that would most likely be renovated by his young companion the moment it was placed in their possession – if it was the right one, at least.

It was while heading down into the basement that Bruce felt concern flare up for Meara. The dark space was not completely blacked out, but what little light could shine through the dirtied windows didn't do much to brighten their surroundings.

Yet the brunette remained mostly calm, albeit caught gazing a bit too long at the small, clouded windows above their heads.

"This is good," Meara remarked, her first words since leaving the row house a couple of hours before. Still eyeing the high basement windows, Meara seemed quite invested in the space despite her continuing discomfort.

"Do you want to see the other properties still?" asked the realtor, thankfully leading the way back upstairs.

"No, this is the one," Meara answered confidently, to which Bruce felt relief.

"We're ready to make the deal, then," the billionaire concluded.

Handling all of the little details of the transaction took up Bruce and Meara's time well past dinner, and left both worn from the excursion when they returned to the row house that night.

"You look exhausted," Bruce remarked offhandedly.

"It was a trying day," was all Meara offered, hanging her jacket across an armchair.

"I'll make dinner," Bruce decided after a moment. "You should take some more time with the laptop. Try the typing practice I set for you."

Not bothering to reply, Meara just made her way over to the indicated object and turned it on. Heading into the kitchen to begin a simple pasta, Bruce smiled but barely at the sounds of the laptop keys already tapping away.

After another quiet meal, Meara spent a few silent hours working on her typing speed and skill, a very quick endeavor by Bruce's estimate. But when the billionaire noticed the young woman's head bob three times in quick succession, he knew her lessons had to be put on temporary hold.

Pushing Meara upstairs, Bruce waited until she had stepped out of sight on the second floor, then returned to the laptop to begin his own work.

Some time during his typical late-night investigations, Bruce noticed with concern and suspicion when his laptop went straight to battery and the lights flickered out, leaving the room in blackness. Saving what work he had done so far, Bruce stood from his chair in vigilant attention. There was nothing to be sensed within the house.

A look outside let him know the world around them stood just as dark and powerless as the inside of the row house. Nothing appeared out of place, even to his extensive perception, but then why the power loss?

Screaming startled Bruce out of inspecting the possible answers, pushing the vigilante to sprint up to Meara's room on the second floor as fast as if he were out on patrol in Gotham's streets.

Through the darkness of the hallway and the bedroom, Bruce caught sight of Meara's huddled form against the headboard, the barest glimpse of terrified eyes visible from beneath the covers. Frowning with sudden understanding, Bruce debated entering the room versus leaving the independent young woman to handle herself, but those wide eyes kept him rooted to the floor.

Instead of leaving, the dark-haired man pushed the door fully open and walked over to his new ally with an outstretched hand.

Shaking still from her terror, Meara shrunk back at the advance, breathing noisy and erratic.

"Meara, it's all right," Bruce tentatively told her, never retracting his hand.

A sliver of recognition entered the brunette's gaze, leaving Bruce relieved when she took his hand like an anchor. Sitting beside her, the billionaire waited out the panic until his young friend could breathe and speak more normally.

"What happened?" Meara asked shakily, plainly not referring to her panic so much as the lights.

"The power's out completely," Bruce cleared up, squeezing her smaller hand reassuringly. "I don't know why yet; there wasn't a storm. All the surrounding structures are blacked out as well. Perhaps some kind of electrical fire or a blown transformer. That does happen occasionally."

"What are the real chances of an _occasional_ situation while we, of all people, are here?" Meara asked, voice still trembling yet regaining some of its strength.

Snorting at the logic presented, Bruce tilted his head with mild acquiescence. "I won't argue the likelihood of such a coincidence. But we don't know for certain what's going on, so let's see what we can find out."

Nodding a little jerkily, Meara allowed the billionaire to pull her to her feet and back down to the main level. Settling Meara in the desk chair, Bruce hurried to grab flashlights, candles, and matches. No doubt a little illumination would help Meara feel even calmer. The struck match granted them light and a little warmth, Bruce setting the candle on the ceramic plate Alfred had packed for it.

"Go ahead and pull up a search," Bruce offered easily. "You may as well learn while you can."

Nodding her understanding, Meara turned back to the screen, searching for any news on the situation. A brief blip of a warning had already been posted, stating an unexpected blackout for reasons unknown – police and emergency crews already set out to investigate the circumstances.

"How could they know so quickly? Meara wondered confusedly, a frown marring her young features.

"Smartphones," Bruce informed her simply, a pensive frown also on his face. "It looks like power is out all across the city."

"Why do you say that?" asked Meara, turning to look up at him where he stood beside her.

"Look at the website that posted the headline," Bruce instructed, pointed to the webpage name beneath the search result.

"S-M-E-S-D-E-P-T," Meara read off the title letters in lingering confusion. "What does that stand for?"

"State of Michigan Emergency Services Department," Bruce clarified. "This is a state posting, not a local one."

"I'm not sure I understand the significance," was the young woman's hesitant response.

"If it was a local occurrence, as I suggested a few moments ago," Bruce explained thoughtfully, "then at least one of the local news stations would still have power on. They could access the internet to post updates. But this was a state posting. That means not only that the local news stations are all without power, but that it was on a large enough scale to warrant notification of state officials and an immediate investigation."

"That still doesn't explain how they could know so quickly, though," Meara pressed, frowning more severely. "Just because the power went out city-wide doesn't mean it's a criminal situation, does it? I know I said as much earlier, but it was borne of panic, not reasonable intuition."

"The entire grid for the city must be knocked out," Bruce replied, still remarkably patient, "That's the only real reason I can imagine such an instantaneous response."

"So it must be pretty difficult to get into the grid power system and disable it," Meara deduced with new understanding.

"Incredibly difficult," Bruce confirmed. "Hopefully Lantern is still here. I don't think it would benefit my secret for Batman to investigate just yet."

"Too timely?" Meara wondered.

"Yes," Bruce nodded. "I doubt John Stewart would fail to put two and two together."

"Would the news report his involvement?" was Meara's next question, fingers ready to type.

"Not likely right now," the billionaire shook his head. "Especially if it's still a regional investigation. If it goes to the federal level, then it might come out that he's helping."

"So we just… wait?" Meara decided on, a bit disappointed and a lot worried.

Smirking at the former emotion, Bruce verified, "We wait."

Sighing at the idea of waiting out a potentially threatening situation, Meara settled in for a long night and an even longer morning. Dozing intermittently on the sofa while Bruce continued searching the situation out didn't help Meara any, and by four o'clock in the morning, the young woman felt more like a zombie than a living person.

"You should have tried to sleep," Bruce reproached her from the desk, his endurance amazing Meara even as it frustrated her.

"Yeah, sleep in a blacked out room," Meara snorted sarcastically. "I can really see that happening."

Sighing, Bruce accepted that with silence and moved to light another candle. After several hours, the first one had melted to almost nothing, leaving barely enough of a ring to contain the liquefied wax.

"Green Lantern has now officially joined the investigation," the billionaire announced with sudden interest, eyeing the webpage carefully as he blew out a match.

"Which means he's probably already been working on it, _unofficially_ ," Meara concluded drearily. "I wonder how it's going…"

Bruce remained silent, leading Meara to decide he already knew that, since he obviously had more deductive skills than most anyone.

"Meara," Bruce spoke thoughtfully, turning from the computer with an intrigued expression, leaning his chin onto one hand thoughtfully.

Catching the intensity of that expression, matched by the inquisitive look the vigilante threw at Green Lantern's blurry photograph on the internet article, Meara had a horrible feeling of a sudden.

"Oh no," Meara replied, long-suffering, shaking her head exasperatedly. "No, no, no – I am _not_ talking to Green Lantern so you can investigate as Batman."

"Just a few hours ago you were disappointed by simply waiting," Bruce reminded her, one dark brow lifted high above his clear blue eye.

"At that time, I wasn't even _remotely_ thinking of talking to the very man who distrusts me so much!" Meara exclaimed, now very much awake as she sat up. "It's not like I can just walk up to him and say, _Hey, Johnny, why don't you let Bats join your mystery?_ Come on, Bruce, be realistic!"

"I am being realistic," Bruce returned, sitting up straight.

"Not realistic enough, then," Meara retorted, turning away.

Before a reply could leave Bruce's lips, the entire house lit up like Christmas, brightness flashing in their eyes countering the darkness and dim flame they had previously been embroiled in. Startled, both of them stared up at the ceiling lights for a long moment.

Finally, Bruce spoke again, "It appears the situation has been resolved."

"It seems so," Meara responded quietly, something disquieted in her tone that Bruce couldn't pinpoint.

"Try and sleep now," the billionaire spoke again, letting the moment go. They were both edgy after the power situation and Meara had already faced a night terror; further arguing would get them both in trouble with each other.

Nodding her only reply, Meara made her way back upstairs at a trudging pace, leaving Bruce to continue his investigations once more, an odd unease settling into his bones over the entire blackout affair and its rapid conclusion.

None of it made any sense, really. From the sudden power outage, to the city-wide range of effects, to the state investigation, even down to Green Lantern's 'official' involvement.

Officially involving a well-known superhero mere hours after the incident occurred seemed far and beyond a normal investigation technique. There was more to the power outage than met the eye, Bruce was willing to bet good money on it.

Sighing in frustration, the dark-haired vigilante rubbed his face irritably and returned to his search. Eventually something would turn up. And if it didn't, like it or not, Meara would simply have to step in and help him meet with Green Lantern. Without her, there was too much questionability involved in his alter ego stepping up to help a situation outside of Gotham City so rapidly.

For more than one reason, Bruce hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Three hours after having dragged herself up to bed, Meara started awake to something she didn't fully comprehend at first through her limited cognizance.

But the sound of Bruce's slightly insistent voice calling her name cleared up the cause of her wakefulness, if not the reason behind being woken by her host. Turning onto her other side to face the billionaire, Meara rubbed as much of the sleep from her eyes as she could manage before speaking groggily, "What is it, Bruce?"

"I regret I had to wake you," the dark-haired man apologized subtly, "but we have a situation. You'd better get up and dressed."

Surprised into a broader level of comprehension and concern, Meara sat up a little too quickly as she inquired, "Why? What's going on?"

"Wake yourself up first," Bruce insisted. "We'll talk downstairs. Breakfast will be ready by the time you are."

"Okay," Meara reluctantly agreed, wishing to know but understanding Bruce was going to be close-lipped until she did as he asked.

At last changed out of her simple gray pajama set and into coral pants, a short-sleeved navy top, cognac ankle boots and matching belt, and a thick, multicolor tribal print sweater, the young woman headed down to whatever crisis awaited with Bruce Wayne. Breakfast didn't occupy much of Meara's mind as she waited for Bruce to drop the proverbial bombshell.

Seeing Meara's obvious disinterest as she powered through the meal he'd set out for her, Bruce decided it was time to expound on the circumstances.

Forgoing words, the billionaire dropped a newspaper in front of Meara without preamble.

As she comprehended the paper before her, Meara's breath caught in her throat.

On the front page of _Detroit Reporter_ , a bold-type article took up the entire cover, accompanied by the photo of a smiling, dark-skinned man with rectangular glasses and a sharp tweed suit.

**CITY'S DISTRICT ATTORNEY FOUND DEAD**  
**_OFFICIAL'S DEATH SHOCKS COMMUNITY_**

**Ronald Perkins, age 42, was found dead in his office early Sunday morning. Perkins served Detroit as District Attorney for nearly 13 years, having been reelected far and wide for a fourth term last November. The sudden death of a public official has authorities on alert for potential foul play. No accusations have been instigated as yet, but the circumstances seem to indicate it is only a matter of time.**

**After helping restore power to the city grid in the wee hours of the morning, Green Lantern was later seen on hand at the District Attorney's Office, scouring the landscape for clues. Mayor Harold Conley has announced the well-known superhero's agreement to aide the investigation, which leaves many wondering exactly what findings would incite the involvement of a member of the Justice League.**

The article went on in greater detail of the attorney's quiet career as a prosecutor and speculation about his mysterious death, but Meara's eyes kept returning to one sentence out of them all.

_After restoring power to the city grid in the wee hours of the morning, Green Lantern was seen on hand at the District Attorney's Office, scouring the landscape for clues._

"This is why the power went out," the young woman concluded, still and horrified as her eyes roamed that sentence over and over. "Isn't it?"

"It has to be," Bruce determined gravely. "For Lantern to be so quickly involved in both investigations… Even in such a serious matter, that's highly unusual. The official channels usually work out what they can before they approach any kind of vigilante hero for help."

Still staring at the pleasantly smiling face of a man who had probably been murdered, Meara shivered lightly and at last responded to her host.

"What do you need me to do?

* * *


	14. Chapter 13: Paranoid

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 13: Paranoid**

Within fifteen minutes of reading the article on Ronald Perkins, Bruce returned to the laptop to find out precisely where to find Green Lantern. Given the nearness of a freshly-announced press conference on Perkins' death, and its location at the police station rather than the district attorney's office, it seemed logical the hero remained at the scene of the crime, but Bruce wasn't taking any chances.

"We don't have time to play hide-and-seek," the billionaire remarked seriously, pulling up a program on the computer that looked very confusing at first.

"What is that?" the young woman had to ask as the vigilante typed some string of code into the system.

Not looking back at her, Bruce answered quickly, "My own search system. You won't find any better digital security than what I have for this program."

"It's already secured, even without signing-in somehow?" Meara wondered curiously, pulling her hair up into ponytail.

"It's not like connecting to password-encrypted wifi," Bruce added distractedly. "The secure connection is pre-installed – the IP address is written into the program. Security is maintained on the server itself, back in Gotham. If any unauthorized user or IP address tries to connect to this program or the server, everything freezes and the server becomes inaccessible. Any program running through that server will show a blank screen while it saves any current data."

"Kind of like invisible ink," Meara compared the system to something she knew.

"A fair analogy," Bruce commented, offering her a quick glance.

"What if someone isn't trying to access the server digitally?" the young woman inquired with a thoughtful frown. "I mean, for the sake of argument, say you left the laptop open while you went out as Batman… What if someone broke into this house, then just pulled up the program and started using it?"

"Good question," Bruce praised her query with a smirk, then proceeded to explain, "When this program is open, the screen becomes a retinal scanner. Any unauthorized retinal scan will prevent the program from opening. An error displays, claiming a technical issue that doesn't actually exist."

"Then how am I looking at it?" Meara asked incredulously.

"I added your retinal identity when I first opened the program," Bruce responded with deeply-buried humor over her awe. "That was the string of code I first entered… Every retinal scan is assigned an identity number. The number must be verified by my specific retinal identity in order to pass the system."

"Just when I thought technology couldn't be all that strange here," Meara muttered to herself.

"I did say it was far more sophisticated than your world," Bruce shrugged slightly, returning to his program. "Ah, there he is… Standing in the middle of Perkins' office, if I'm not mistaken."

"I won't be allowed anywhere _near_ that building, let alone inside it," Meara remarked pensively, restless as she tried to find a way around the difficulty.

"You won't have to be," Bruce replied confidently. "I'll send out a police call to Lantern about the press conference, asking if he'll run the facts through one more time with the police commissioner. He'll reluctantly agree and leave the building. When he sees you out front, he'll be suspicious enough to talk to you and find out why you're there. Then you can ask him to let me help. Doubtless Lantern will argue with you as long as he can, but he'll want to keep his word about the conference, so he'll argue only long enough that he'll barely make the press conference. On such short time, he'll apologize for not getting there sooner, but the commissioner won't think he means it as anything more than courtesy. The matter will be at an end, the press conference will bring up new questions and troubles to consume both men, and Lantern will never realize the police call was a fake until it's all over – if ever."

Staring in subtle awe at the man's logic and the depth of thought in so short a time, Meara just shook her head amazedly. "Okay. Far be it from me to argue with you on this."

Snorting, Bruce stood from the laptop and gestured for Meara to walk ahead of him to the door. "We'd better go."

Standing outside the chaos that was the district attorney's office, caught up in whirlwind of hundreds of people – some jostling to see the place where a public official was murdered, some trying to escape the madness to continue on with their day, and those who were involved in the investigation and crime scene – Meara felt that overwhelming sensation the same as she had when looking at houses similar to her anguished history. It wasn't pleasant to keep fighting for her place on the sidewalk when people grazed rudely past or backed into her while trying to sneak a peak over the heads of the crowd. Plus Bruce had decided it might be a bad idea having an earpiece so near to the one Lantern would have on him.

Taking a deep breath as another mindless zealot shoved roughly past to get their greedy glimpse of murder, Meara let the stress just exist and did her best to wait as patiently as she had to. Back in the Audi two blocks down, Bruce waited for her return after making the false police call to Green Lantern.

After another long fifteen minutes being hassled in her place against a brick-walled flower shop, Meara finally saw her quarry exiting the front door of the district attorney's office, the glowing green and black outfit far less intimidating than it had been up on the Watchtower. It was crisp and ironically dark, but nevertheless a certain humor filled Meara when she looked the costume over with new eyes.

As sure as Bruce had said, Green Lantern looked over the wild, untamed mass of people along the street and, of course, his eyes found Meara's with sudden suspicion. Tamed by a sense of sympathy, perhaps, but still filled with suspicious doubt.

Meara realized with sudden awkwardness that she was facing off with a superhero. This wasn't merely John Stewart in a trench coat and shades, but the Green Lantern in full costume. Meeting with him on that very public street would paint a big target on her back as being somehow connected to Lantern's murder investigation, not to mention the superhero world in general.

Lantern seemed to realize this, too, giving Meara a distinct look she wasn't sure how to interpret, but it seemed important to him that she understand his unspoken message, so she just nodded and decided to keep waiting.

Whatever he meant, Lantern clearly accepted her nod as the right answer and walked down to the sub shop three buildings from the district attorney's office. Expecting to find John Stewart himself walking back out of the door, shortly thereafter Meara had no trouble recognizing the dark-skinned man in a black trench coat, gray slacks, and black dress shoes as he exited the restaurant with a sizeable bag of food in his hand. No one disturbed his steps or looked askance at his appearance; while Green Lantern didn't hide his identity in general, he still comfortably evaded widespread attention in his own skin as John Stewart.

Wordlessly, the subtle hero made his way across the street through the melee and reached Meara in record time.

"There's a park on the next block," the man offered, firm yet a tiny bit softer than he had been the first two times they met.

Meara nodded in response and followed John Stewart down to the park in question, all the while wondering why her similarity to Bruce Wayne inspired the slight change in attitude. Perhaps the sympathy card, she guessed helplessly.

The hero stopped at an empty bench in an area that appeared to be devoid of visitors, Meara following his lead.

"We meet again," the lantern started conversation blandly, temporarily setting aside his purchased meal. "Don't tell me Bruce Wayne is buying _another_ piece of real estate?"

"Not that it would be such a strange idea," Meara retorted with mild sarcasm, "but no. I'm here for my other keeper."

"Funny how he's never here when you are," Stewart commented sharply. "I felt pretty certain we all had a deal going about that."

"Funny how you reneged about your end of that deal," Meara returned just as sharply, thinking of the personal belongings and mementos he had effectively stolen from her – not out of awareness, but out of spite for Batman's precautions.

Narrowing brown eyes at her, the lantern ignored her retort for the time being. "I suppose you told your other keeper about what's been happening here in Detroit on your visit."

"The power goes out for no apparent reason," Meara told him, holding in her temper at his condescending tone, "and then a district attorney is murdered. Coincidental, no?"

"Coincidence or not, how is that any of your business?" Stewart cut in irritably.

"From the way the news stories are telling it right now," the young woman interceded, "they haven't found anything to really work with. Sounds like a call for help, if you ask me."

"I don't need anyone cutting in on this investigation," the man informed her with deeper agitation. "If we're through playing social worker, you might want to explain why you're alone and not with Wayne."

"Mr. Wayne is a very busy man," Meara breathed deeply, attempting to calm herself. "And if you think the two of us are going to be glued at the hip…"

"And why shouldn't you be?" the lantern grated.

"I have to work, for one thing," Meara bit out. "But so does he… He has a life and a job that aren't going to include me hanging off of his arm to satisfy your unfounded doubts."

"Unfounded?" the hero gawked at her, but Meara cut in before he could spout more theories as to her sudden appearance in their world, or her otherworldly knowledge of them and their lives.

"Look, I understand my arrival here was completely unexpected," she told him, and truly she did understand. "My knowledge is a source of worry and a point of contention. You don't know me, you can't find me on any database you have access to in this world, you can't physically or digitally find my relatives to confirm I am who I say I am. There are a billion and one things you want to know about me and my end goals that you will never find out in this universe… I'm sorry none of that is possible, but I can't do _anything_ about it."

Holding up a hand to forestall one more comment from the lantern, Meara spoke as low as she could while still being audible to the man, "And I would think the fact that _Batman_ , of all the people in the world, took such genuine interest in my welfare, would alleviate the concerns you have. You _know_ him. You know how he operates. Do you honestly think he would let me into his world without having absolute trust that I won't betray him? Without absolutely damning evidence that I'm not going to hurt anyone? Based on previous experience with Batman, do you _seriously_ _believe_ that if I posed any threat to any of you or anyone else in this world, that _the_ _Batman_ wouldn't have locked me up in the Watchtower like you wanted to?"

Green Lantern looked briefly uncomfortable, even embarrassed, until he firmed up his features and finally found his opening to speak, "All right. I get that. When you put it that way, I get why everyone's upset with what I did and the way I've reacted. But frankly, looking into a crystal ball isn't my idea of absolutely damning evidence."

"That's not all he has," Meara sighed, at least pleased to reach some level of common ground with suspicious John Stewart. "He had my license, birth certificate, social security card—"

"All of which could have been faked," the lantern interrupted, albeit a bit apologetically. Meara felt a measure of relief for his growing sense of reason, even if it was severely dampened by his continued mistrust.

"Why do you trust J'onn?" Meara wondered abruptly.

Startled by the subject change, Stewart stared at her for a moment before replying slowly, "He proved he was trustworthy. By the way he helped us defeat the invaders. And later, when he gave up Morgan Le Fey's bargain. There are any number of reasons why… None of which you have under your belt, Miss Nolan."

"But you gave him a chance," Meara argued. "Before you knew any of that, you gave him a chance to prove his trustworthiness. As you just told me, he _did_ prove it. And that same person you named as trustworthy… he said I was telling the truth about my family."

"That may be true," the man allowed, but shook his head as he continued, "but there are any number of ways you could tell the truth and still live a lie."

Exhaling in frustrated huff, Meara ran a hand over her ponytail, which has loosed a number of strands in the jostling crowd several moments earlier.

"So what," she finally burst, pulling the first argument she could imagine, "you think I'm going to purposefully and willingly face death to get into your good graces? That toxin hurt like every kind of hell imaginable – something that is statistically and clinically proven, by the way. _And_ you know I nearly died from it."

"That's a better cue than anything else," Stewart sighed tiredly. "Look, I'm sorry for what you might have lived through, but I won't trust you based on pity."

Angry by the subtle play on the history lantern assumed her to have, Meara turned cold.

"Batman is waiting for your answer," she changed the subject with ice in her voice. "Tell him yourself."

Standing suddenly, the young woman turned away sharply and stalked back the way they had come.

"Wait!" the lantern called after her, and it took every ounce of Meara's willpower to actually stop and hear him out.

"I don't know why," the man pressed, exhaling exasperatedly, "but I'll work with him on this. You can tell him yes. Have him contact me when he's ready."

Struck by the strange, almost amused, tone in his voice, Meara turned to stare at the hero over her shoulder.

"If nothing else," lantern continued, deep voice definitely amused now, "I can ask him more about why he trusts you."

Staring at his clean-shaven face and glinting brown eyes, Meara wondered what had changed in the space of a few minutes. Certainly the man still failed to trust her, but…. Was this his way of subtly saying he would give her a chance? Confusion notched higher, Meara didn't quite know how to interpret the lantern's actions and moods.

"You're not quite what I expected, John Stewart," Meara remarked, confusion audibly gracing her gentle voice.

"You're not exactly a bowl of peaches, yourself, Nolan," he snorted, pulling his bag of food out for inspection.

His choice of title was odd, to say the least. Half-smiling with lingering bewilderment, Meara continued to wonder exactly how they had gone from ' _I'll never trust you_ ' to ' _Maybe I'll give you a chance_ ' in the space of a few minutes.

Temporarily giving up on analyzing men who were infinitely more complex than she had time to deal with at the present moment, Meara finally decided on a simple nod as she fared the Green Lantern well, "Stewart."

"Nolan," he repeated, turning to his sandwich as a couple jogged past them, heavy electronic music blaring from their earbuds and intruding on Meara's convolutions.

Walking away with the conclusion she would only drive herself insane trying to figure out the machinations behind John Stewart's complicated persona, Meara made her way quickly back to the Audi three blocks away.

"How did it go?" Bruce inquired curiously upon her return to the vehicle.

"You'll be interested to know," Meara remarked dryly as she pulled on her belt, "we're on a non-titled last name basis now."

Bruce stared for a moment, then snorted. "All right, then. I take it he said yes?"

"He did," Meara nodded, "although I don't really know why. I had just started to walk away offended when he stopped me and said he would work with you. Contact him when you're ready."

"Let's not bother too much with his reasons," Bruce told her. "For right now, at least. I have to plan a few things before tonight. The realtor called me while you met with lantern. My offer was accepted."

"I thought we were only looking?" Meara returned, surprised. "I didn't know you were actually going to keep it."

"I think it's better if you actually have a place here," Bruce replied casually. "Besides, you can have it remade into the same image as the old house. It would verify your descriptions and experiences if anyone ever checked into it."

"I suppose so," Meara fidgeted at the idea of doing the same design as her old home. The memories, as always, were a matter of controversy.

"You don't have to do exactly the same," Bruce commented, catching sight of her expression. "Just enough that your descriptions will be on cue. Wall colors or general furniture colors and styles… That sort of thing."

Exhaling quietly in relief, Meara agreed more easily, "Okay, I can do that."

In the midst of a quick sandwich and salad lunch, Bruce received another call from the realtor. Judging by the little amount of talking Bruce did, Meara guessed the realtor was jawing the billionaire's ear off. She was only proved correct when the call lasted well past lunch and ended merely because Bruce explained his urgency to get to a business appointment.

Ending the call, the vigilante sighed exasperatedly, rolling his eyes at the antics of the realtor and bringing a half-laugh out of his companion. "Thankfully, I can now start working on tonight's meeting. Is there anything you have in mind to do, Meara? I'll be intensively involved in making plans, so I doubt I'll be any company."

"I can sketch," the young woman offered with a slight smile of understanding. "I'll be upstairs. Let me know if you need my help for anything."

"That I'll do," Bruce agreed as she stood from the table. "Maybe you can create a sketch for your phone case."

"That's a good idea," Meara nodded. "Thank you."

Time passed quietly in the row house while both occupants enacted their separate passions in life; Meara sketching endless ideas for her phone and Bruce investigating a crime from all angles.

Meara didn't have many ideas how to outfit her cell phone to be totally unique without giving away important information about herself or her circumstances. Instead, she attempted working in subtle symbols without directly copying a familiar icon. It didn't work very well, but it gave her a lot to think about and work on until Bruce left to investigate with Green Lantern.

The time arrived rapidly, by Meara's estimation, Bruce stopping in her doorway at seven-thirty to offer plans and precautions.

"Have your earpiece nearby," Bruce informed her, offering up the item Meara had thought herself done with for the time being. "Most likely I won't contact you, but if I need to for any reason, it will emit a series of three pitches, each successively higher than the last. It will do this four times or until you answer. If I haven't returned by five o'clock, contact Alfred and he'll explain how to get to the jet. Then pack whatever you're able, even my belongings. By the time you're done, you'll probably only have a couple of hours before the plane is slated to leave… I've already packed up the lower level, save food items, safety tools, contact information, and important paperwork I placed in this duffle."

So saying, the billionaire dropped a black duffle bag on the floor just inside Meara's doorway before continuing, "In the event of emergency evacuation of any kind, abandon anything you don't absolutely need. Take the laptop if you can – I've put in my room for now. If you can't take it, let Alfred know; there are ways to destroy it before anything is found. The main thing I want you to do in that circumstance is keep yourself safe and protect the secrets we all share. Is everything clear?"

The overwhelming feeling crept over Meara again as she nodded her grim understanding, but after dealing with so many emotional memories the past few days, somehow the notion of panic had left her on the numb side.

"Take care," Bruce nodded at her, then disappeared from her door – presumably to become the knight of Gotham City.

Left behind with such dim, depressing possibilities hanging over her, Meara instantly abandoned her sketches. There was nothing short of unconsciousness that could cloud her worry at that point. Accepting her lack of activity, Meara stood from the bed and moved to pack up everything except her clothes for the trip back to Gotham, going so far as to add her sketchbook and pencils to the half-full duffle Bruce packed.

Anxiety crawled under her skin when she heard Bruce's true parting shot – the window sliding shut in his room with intentional noise. Finishing her packing some twenty minutes later, the young woman took a seat on the bed to try and wait out Bruce's return and her own nerves.

Standing again a mere three minutes later, Meara found herself doing some she normally didn't – pacing.

Five minutes into her useless vigil, the young woman scoffed at herself and stopped dead in her tracks. Bruce was Batman, for crying out loud. He could handle himself. Green Lantern would be by his side as well. What good was Meara doing stalking the hardwood? No good at all, the brunette told herself firmly. Yet without a direct link to whatever Batman was involved in, Meara didn't understand how she could do any good even when she wasn't pacing.

Exhaling irritably, the future administrative assistant allowed her feet to begin traveling again, somehow ending up looking into Bruce's ever Spartan space. The open door invited Meara inside with a strange sense of safety she remembered feeling in the City Bunker after her nerve-induced blackout.

Bruce had even left his open suitcase on the bed, in case his emergency precautions became necessary. Inhaling sharply at the reminder that something could go wrong, regardless how unlikely it appeared, Meara took hard strides to the side of the bed, roughly zipped the luggage closed again, and yanked the case mercilessly onto the floor and out of her direct line of vision from the door.

Turning her back on such a ridiculous effort, Meara's eyes caught on the laptop Bruce left in her care. The same odd program he'd used to track John Stewart that morning remained open, the screen blinking as though waiting for something to do.

Feeling an inspiration, the young woman's steps led her slowly up to the equipment on the new white dressing chair Meara had chosen. If she could just look into the case Bruce was working, just to feel connected to the situation somehow and keep her worries at bay…

Bruce hadn't specifically told her _not_ to do what she wanted to, but he also never said she specifically _could_ , either. Yet he had added her identity to the program so she could use it, so that was a kind of permission… Caught in a dilemma, Meara realized she would end up frazzled if she kept worrying so much. Surely Bruce wouldn't be upset if she was keeping herself sane?

Telling herself it was worth the effort of finding out, Meara took a leap of faith in her protector and carried the laptop over to the bed, setting it up in a rather precarious position on the six-inch ledge of the footboard while she settled into the white Louis chair before it.

The program didn't make any fuss or warning when Meara began typing into its parameters as Bruce had done, so she supposed it was all go for her. Encouraged, it didn't take long for the young woman to build up a base of information and begin taking notes as she encountered pertinent information.

From the situation with Devil Ray on the day she arrived in the world of the Justice League, right down to Green Lantern's investigations at the District Attorney's office, Meara researched everything that could possibly be related to the case on Ronald Perkins' murder. Time seemed inconsequential as she became engrossed in her task, not even bothering to check the time in her bubble of analysis.

A click at the window had Meara jumping almost out of her seat with fright and surprise. Turning rapidly to face the glass barrier behind her back, a familiar black gauntlet put her at immediate ease.

With a wry expression as she moved to open the window, Meara realized Bruce was trying not to startle her. The idea was fairly ridiculous, all things considered.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," she reproached the vigilante as he slipped into the room like a well-oiled machine, standing tall and imposing a mere five feet away in all his black glory. She hadn't seen the alter ego of her keeper in a week; really it should have been even more of a shock than it was, but she gave up trying to determine why it failed to be so.

"What did you find?" was all Batman asked in reply, the rough, gravely voice a startling change to the smooth, sarcastic billionaire Meara spoke with before he left.

Looking remarkably sheepish at his expectant knowledge, Meara nevertheless turned with as much dignity as she could and walked back to the computer screen she technically should not have touched without permission.

Throwing an arm out to the side in resignation, she finally answered, "Not much of interest."

Taking a breath, the brunette tonelessly sped through the data she'd found, "Ronald Perkins was born in Detroit at Grace-Mercy Hospital, father a plumber, mother a housekeeper. Youngest of five – two brothers, two sisters. Went to Detroit public schools, graduated with honors, attended Bronwen Public Law and graduated cum laude. Mother died of breast cancer ten years ago, father died peacefully in his sleep three years ago, older sister never married and moved to Oregon for a secretarial job, oldest sister became a retail manager and moved to North Carolina with her husband, one brother became a stock broker and was poisoned by his gold-digging girlfriend five years ago, the other brother wasted himself on alcohol and his failing liver killed him two years ago… Broad political support range for Perkins during his campaign. Always chose to support the underdog, regardless of political affiliation. No major cases in his career, no high-profile victims or defendants, no abuse of power… Never married, no known children or girlfriends, no scandals, no psychiatric record, no criminal record, _nothing_. Not even a _parking ticket_."

Meara emphasized the last phrase with sarcastic disbelief. "The guy is totally clean. Reading his history is like watching a dry documentary. Either he topped himself out of boredom, which I highly doubt, or the more likely scenario – he found something big on someone and planned to prosecute, so he was killed. Considering the situation, it really makes a lot of sense. Perkins was in his office at very unusual hours – for him, at least – and there was no support staff in the building until his assistant found him in the morning. He must have planned to meet with someone to talk about what he found. Maybe Perkins even planned to meet with the person he was accusing, to try and negotiate a deal. Whatever he was doing, the person or people he was going to reveal must have murdered him before he could tell what he knew."

"I've been considering the possibility," Batman answered with a nod.

"So you have positive proof he was murdered now," Meara assumed darkly.

"Definitely," Batman replied even more darkly, holding out his gauntleted hand for her inspection. Inside the black-covered palm sat several bullets, all apparently used if the slight, dried red stains were any indication.

Swallowing uncomfortably, Meara tried not to feel sick. "I'm guessing he could never have done that himself, then?"

"The first bullet went through his brain. He died immediately. The others were for show."

"A show of what?" Meara asked disgustedly.

"Hiding the modus operandi," Batman explained. "The first bullet was laced."

"With what?" Meara inquired, dread creeping into her voice.

Grimly, Batman's gruff voice answered, "Curare."

Struck by the very obvious conclusions to be drawn from the simple word, Meara swallowed hard.

"Deadshot," she concluded knowingly, but her brow furrowed soon after. "That doesn't make sense, though… Why would a man who cultivated the same method of operation his entire criminal career suddenly try to hide it? He's never been shy about it before."

"That's the rub," Batman agreed, a hint of intrigue in his deep tone. "Lawton doesn't just drop a body without taking credit. It must have been a requirement from whoever employed him, an attempt to limit investigations into the cause of the murder."

"Sounds like we have another paranoid psycho on our hands," Meara commented, strains of resigned frustration in her voice.

"I can't disagree," Batman remarked. "Did you look up anything else?"

"No, I was too annoyed by how little I found on Perkins," Meara admitted a bit sheepishly. "I kept trying different searches – I guess I was thinking stubbornness would get me more information somehow. Are you going to meet with Green Lantern again tonight?"

"There's little more I can do here," Batman explained. "It's already three-thirty. We'll head back in several hours as planned."

Nodding her understanding, Meara walked to the door, leaving the room so the man could change out his costume and examine her search results himself, but paused in the doorway.

Looking up at the intimidating vigilante, barely able to see his ice blue eyes in the small eye openings, Meara found herself rapidly blurting out, "Um, I'm… sorry. About… the program. I didn't have permission. It wasn't mine… I came up with excuses, of course, you know, mainly telling myself I'd go absolutely insane if I wasn't somehow connected to it all… Yeah… sorry."

Awkwardly, Meara turned away and continued her trek back to her own room, having taken four steps down the hall when she heard fabric roughly pulled away from something.

"Meara," Bruce called her back, rather than Batman's gruff tone, a bit of long-suffering resignation in his now-smooth voice.

Turning just barely to face the unmasked man now standing in the hall, anticipation buried in rich oceanic eyes, Meara awaited the billionaire's reproach.

"I admit, the first few seconds I realized what you did, I was a bit angry…" Bruce sighed amusedly, adding more wryly, "But seeing you so engrossed, seeing the proof of how quickly you caught onto something you never used before… I actually felt pride."

Struck speechless by his easy acceptance, Meara didn't quite know how to react.

"Go ahead and pack up," Bruce told her, amusement buried in his handsome features. "We'll have an early breakfast afterward and make sure the house is in order before we leave it."

Without another word, the billionaire walked back into his room and shut the door. Meara slowly made her way back to her room in awe, eventually shaking herself out of it to begin carrying all of the luggage that had been meant for her room down to the main level piece by piece. With that completed, the brunette returned to the bedroom to obtain her clothes and toiletries and headed down the hall to the bathroom.

Freshly clean and dressed in a simple taupe turtleneck, black jeans, and black ankle boots, Meara carried her same tribal print cardigan over one arm. Reaching for Bruce's black duffle bag, shouldering her brown tote, and grasping the black floral suitcase, Meara took the stairs slowly to avoid tripping on the way down.

Their collection of suitcases waited in the hall between the living area and entryway, and the smells of eggs, toast, and ham hurtled to Meara's nose with delightful warmth.

"Mm, that smells good," she admitted to Bruce as she passed the kitchen doorway and into the heart of the room itself. "Gosh, I'm hungrier than I thought."

"The eggs and ham are done," the billionaire told her with a slight smirk. Dressed in a rich camel polo and black slacks, he looked casual and yet sharp while buttering the toast. "Go ahead. There's fruit and yogurt already on the table."

Not having to be told twice, Meara picked up one of the plates laid out on the table and plucked some ham and eggs from the hot plate.

"How in the world did you get ready so fast?" the young woman wondered, a little stunned. "I didn't even spend two full hours packing and getting ready."

"I spent one hour," Bruce remarked, smirking more broadly. "I'm used to fast-paced costume changes and packing. It's half my work – on both ends of the spectrum."

"If you say so," Meara shook her head amusedly, taking a seat and adding fruit and yogurt to her plate before digging right in to the eggs.

Polishing off half her plate in record time, Meara slowed down once Bruce joined her, offering toast to her collection of food. Accepting two pieces, the brunette spoke again, "I have to confess, despite your seemingly endless list of skills and talents, I never thought of Bruce Wayne cooking."

"Probably because I have Alfred," he said in response, eyeing her wryly.

"And a healthy bank account for dining out," Meara commented dryly, leading Bruce to snort and continue wordlessly with his meal.

An hour or so later, waiting for the plane to begin taxiing, Meara felt a lack of sleep catching back up to her. While touching up the last look of the row house for its future sale, her energy had gone high and wide, but now as she sat ensconced in the comfort of the jet with nothing to occupy herself, Meara grew drowsy in complacency. The next thing she knew, Bruce woke her from sleep just as the seatbelt light went out.

Gotham remained dreary, gray, and rainy, as it had been when they left it Friday. Sitting once again in the passenger seat of the nondescript car Bruce had originally driven to the airport, Meara watched through the falling sprigs of water as Gotham passed by in a blur of stone and glass. An unusual sense of familiarity swept over Meara as they pulled into the drive of Wayne Manor at long last.

"I guess Gotham is already starting to feel like home," she stated quietly, eyes trained on the droplets of rain that fell and slid incessantly down her window.

"One thing in our favor, then," Bruce remarked ruefully, water splashing up from the puddles on the side drive to the carriage house.

Allowing a tiny smile to cross her lips even as she shook her head, Meara deigned not to respond as they finally pulled in door six to a waiting Alfred.

"Always on time," Bruce commented in the quiet, setting the brake and turning off the motor.

"Welcome back, Master Wayne, Miss Meara," the butler greeted them with a slight smile when they walked towards him, baggage in tow. "I do hope your trip was satisfactory?"

"It served its purpose," Bruce offered for both of them, "but we're both glad to be back in Gotham."

"Excellent, sir," Alfred smiled more widely. "Miss Meara, your possessions have been returned to their place in the Aerius room – all except your clothing. Please feel free to rearrange anything your heart desires, and I will gladly help you with moving your wardrobe if you should need it."

"Thank you, Alfred," Meara replied, gratitude seeping into her weary voice. "But I think, right now, I just want to sleep."

"An idea I can stand behind," the elder man chuckled and reached for Meara's bags. "Allow me to take that duffle for you, Miss Meara."

Too tired to argue, Meara handed off the black duffle bag with ease, keeping her brown tote and floral suitcase and heading to the Caligo room with trudging steps. Bruce and Alfred's quiet conversation about the real estate purchases in Detroit followed her up the stairs. Once safely encapsulated in the small, dark room, the young woman took only enough time to set her luggage down near the chair beside the perfectly-made bed, change into the pajamas from her suitcase, and remove her half-ponytail before climbing under the covers and dropping almost immediately into comfortable sleep.

When Meara next awoke in the early afternoon, it was with a peaceful, rested feeling she hadn't felt in ages. Being back in the safety of Bruce's home and the comfort of luxurious surroundings gave the young woman quite a heavy measure of contentment. Rising similarly to how she had her first morning in the Aerius room, Meara stifled a snort at the memory of Tim's atypically childish behavior. Knowing the thirteen-year-old as she had come to this past week, both through experience and through the eyes of his family, Meara had a distinct feeling Tim had simply been enthusiastic about someone new. Changing into her outfit from that morning with fresh energy and cheer, Meara appreciated the pleasant memory.

"Hey, Meara!" Dick and Tim greeted her cheerfully in synchrony as the young woman took a seat in the dining room.

"Hi, Dick, Tim," Meara echoed their sentiments with a smile.

"How was Detroit?" Tim asked first.

"It was useful," Meara commented simply, smiling in thanks when Alfred set sandwich, soup, and ice tea before her. "Thank you, Alfred."

Nodding warmly, the butler returned to the kitchen to drop his tray.

"Certainly eventful," Bruce elaborated with a quiet snort.

"Well, with a D.A. getting murdered, I'd say so," Dick agreed a bit incredulously.

"The D.A. was murdered?" Tim reiterated in surprise, then turned a narrow gaze on his brother. "How did you hear that before I did?"

"Maybe because I _got up_ before you did," Dick accused, rolling his eyes.

"Let's just say it's already more trouble than we bargained for," Bruce ended the conversation before Tim could make another retort.

"I guess I better go," Dick asserted resignedly, glancing at his watch. "Don't want to be late my first day."

"Oh my God, I forgot classes begin Wednesday for me," Meara sighed with new anxiety.

"They're all after lunch, though," Dick pointed out reasonably. "That's probably a weight off your mind."

"Yes, but when I begin work, it won't make much difference anyway."

Shrugging in acquiescence, the nineteen-year-old didn't have a reply to that as he stood and left for class.

"I have no doubt you'll do fine," Bruce interceded before Meara could work herself into a fit of nerves. "Tim, shouldn't you get a move on, too? It's already twenty minutes after one."

"Yeah, I probably should," Tim sighed a little, taking one last drink of his water before making his way through the kitchen door, calling out, "Hey, Alfred, I'm ready!"

"All right, Master Tim," Alfred's distant voice reached their ears from somewhere in the kitchen just before the door closed.

"Would it be all right if I work on the ballroom after lunch?" Meara inquired of Bruce, idly rubbing the pads of her fingers together.

"Of course," he agreed, slightly surprised. "You don't have to ask, Meara."

"I feel odd not asking in your own home," the young woman explained awkwardly.

"You'll get over it," was the billionaire's smart response. Meara narrowed stormy eyes at him and Bruce chuckled at her expression, leaving the rest of their lunch silent.

Meara worked right up until dinner, whereupon Alfred called her to join the Wayne men for a meal, then afterward the brunette went right back to her work. It took dozing where she sat working at the base of a ballroom wall for Meara to finally make her way up to bed. Having neglected to move her wardrobe earlier that day, the young woman returned to the Caligo room – hopefully for the last day – to take her rest.

After so comfortable a rest as she had enjoyed earlier the previous day, the young woman had not entertained a single thought of insomnia as she lay down to sleep. It should have come as no surprise, then, that the abysmal condition attacked her when she was least expecting it to. Waking to a dark room, as always, Meara drew a deep breath and hurriedly went for her robe to leave the room. There was little to keep her attention on the way downstairs outside of the darkness, and after her fit in Detroit, it wasn't any easier to handle.

Trekking down the staircase in a familiar path, Meara found her way to the typically dark entryway with the front lights shining in from the outside. Shivering, Meara saw with desolation there was no light in the kitchen or the lounge. All stood black as midnight.

The young woman stood there trembling with discomfort and fears from the past choking her mind, wishing for the willpower to move, to walk back to the Aerius room or to make it just a number of feet to one of the light switches, but her feet froze.

Breathing awkwardly for far longer a time than she cared to admit to herself, Meara jumped a mile when a voice eventually called out through the darkness.

"You okay, Meara?"

Youthful and kind, Tim's teenage voice broke the smog in Meara's brain with the strength of a bustling rain shower bursting through the clouds.

"Tim," The young woman spoke his name aloud, the power of speech finally freeing her to turn and glimpse the barest sight of the boy Robin near the foot of the stairs. "Um… I think I am. It… It's…"

After an indecisive moment, Meara's voice failed her.

"Is it that dark?" Tim guessed accurately, and Meara sighed.

"Yes," she confessed plainly, shoulders sinking with the admission.

"I'm headed to one of the brightest rooms in the house," Tim told her more cheerily, but mixed tactfully with understanding. "Want to join?"

Hesitating only a second to judge his true desire for her to come with him, Meara nodded. "Yes."

"Come on," the boy smiled and stretched his hand out toward the brunette. Meara's unusual night vision surprised her yet again.

Accepting the helping hand, Meara allowed the boy far more adept at moving in the darkness to guide her on their way. They traveled a path Meara only vaguely recognized from Bruce's tour; she certainly didn't remember precisely where the winding hallway led.

The presence of Bruce's younger son stilled the nerves in Meara's heart on their trip through the main floor, although not nearly as strongly as if Bruce himself stood with her. Still, it was nice to feel more safe than panicked.

As the crisply efficient smell of chlorine broke through the young woman's concentrated remembrance, Meara recalled the enormous pool buried in the south wing at the broad-windowed back of the manor, overlooking the patio and the small copse of trees and bushes nearest the back of the house.

"Sometimes I come down here when I want to wind down after patrol," Tim explained as they walked through the wide, elaborately carved marble doorway to the vast expanse of clear blue water and light-colored granite, the brilliant illumination all around them rushing Mear's fears away into the ether.

"Want to swim? It might take your mind off the dark."

Startled by the offer, Meara looked at the water and then back to Tim with a half-shrug. "I don't have anything to swim in."

"Oh, that's true," Tim frowned slightly, sticking a hand in the pocket of his black swim trunks. "Well, I guess you could try and borrow something from Barbara's stash. She keeps some stuff in that white cabinet on the left wall."

Glancing in the indicated direction only to know what the elegantly gilded white cabinet looked like, Meara returned her interest to Tim. "I don't really want to take Barbara's things. Maybe I can go shopping for swimwear sometime."

The thirteen-year-old gauged Meara somewhat in the manner of his adoptive father, albeit with gentler blue eyes, and finally nodded acquiescently. "Okay. Maybe some time soon."

Smiling vaguely at the partial promise, Meara let Tim go on his merry way around the pool, his bright blue t-shirt discarded as he went along.

Exuding a far more genuine smile at the excited shout the boy gave as he flipped off the diving board and into the deep end of the pool, Meara crossed her arms comfortably and took a seat on a nearby garden chair. Watching Tim play and goof off became practically cathartic as the time passed by, his boyish enthusiasm a wonderful change to the grim life he probably led sometimes.

After what felt like hours of acting as an audience to Tim's wind-down – which really looked more like a full blown workout – brief movement from the corner of Meara's eye drew her attention to the doorway, finding Bruce in a navy t-shirt standing there with easy grace, hands in his sweatpants pockets while he observed his son's antics in the pool.

Moving to her side without interrupting Tim's playful exercise, Bruce settled quietly into the chair beside Meara and reclined more casually than the young woman expected.

"All right?" the billionaire inquired, leaving his gaze on Tim rather than on Meara.

"I woke up without a reason again," Meara addressed the issue directly for a change. Inhaling slowly and then exhaling on a sigh moments later, she continued, "And I won't get back to sleep now. I never do."

In Meara's peripheral vision, she glimpsed Bruce nod comprehendingly.

"I'd hoped it was mostly due to settling in," the vigilante informed her, snorting a moment later. "Should I have known better?"

"Maybe around this place," Meara commented less than humorously.

Silence reigned over the expansive pool area, but for Tim's splashing and spitting as he dove and rose to the surface of the water.

"Is everyone awake?" Meara wondered randomly.

"Alfred went to bed after he prepped tomorrow's breakfast," Bruce detailed, "and Dick was sleeping like the dead when I checked in on him."

Half-laughing at the description, Meara leaned her head back against the chair.

"Don't like swimming?" Bruce wondered after a beat.

"Never learned," Meara admitted, her hands suddenly very interesting.

Bruce looked at the young woman for the first time since sitting down, proposing tentatively, "Would you like to learn?"

Throwing a startled glance at the billionaire, Meara blinked a long moment. Heaving a sigh at last, she confessed bluntly, "I'm afraid of the water."

"Ah," Bruce murmured with fresh understanding. "Was this related to the basement situation or to something when you were a child?"

"Childhood," said Meara uncomfortably, but the truth came easier after having expelled so much of it to this man during their recent trip. "I was with my dad again and he left me on my own–"

"Again," Bruce interrupted, repeating her line sarcastically, already having an idea of where the story might lead.

"Yes," Meara exhaled sharply. "He took me to a park, probably hoping I'd go run around and stop bugging him to play with me. As usual, he wasn't watching me and I went exploring. I started climbing things, just what most kids do, but I slipped and fell. Never learned to swim, so I started falling under the water. Another parent there pulled me out. First and only time I ever heard anyone really yell at my dad for his neglect, other than my mom."

"And you've been afraid of it ever since," Bruce concluded the story for her. Meara could only shrug.

While Tim pulled himself out of the pool and began toweling off, Bruce rephrased his earlier question, "Would you like me to teach you?"

Meara's eyes found his with extreme reluctance filling the stormy depths, leading Bruce to another question, "Do you trust me?"

Meara didn't hesitate this time, but firmly accepted, "You know I do."

"Then I'll teach you," Bruce replied simply.

By this time, Tim had approached them both, the towel still around his neck and his eyes full of intrigue.

"Bruce is going to teach me to swim," Meara recounted for him, not fully clear why she felt the need.

"That's great," Tim smiled, genuinely pleased. "As soon as you're good to go, we'll have a race."

"Uh… I think I'll pass on a certified loss," the brunette shook her head at the boy.

Bruce and Tim both chuckled at her attitude on the subject.

"I need to buy some swimsuits, now, I guess," the young woman asserted rather than continue thoughts of racing an insanely healthy, physically-fit vigilante of any age, in any manner.

"Tomorrow is as good a day as any," Bruce encouraged her. "Your last day before classes start."

"Don't remind me," Meara groaned.

"I won't be able to take you, I'm stuck running between meetings all day. That means Alfred is out for the count as well," Bruce frowned thoughtfully, putting his chin on one palm. After a few pensive minutes, he decided, "You'll probably have to wait for Dick to get out of his class tomorrow, so he can take you."

"Meara has a car now," remarked Tim in surprise. "Why would she have to wait for anyone?"

"I don't know my way around town well enough yet," Meara answered for Bruce. "I need a guide, if not someone to watch out for me."

"I can go with you for that," Tim scoffed incredulously, throwing his towel aside. "I know Gotham like the back of my hand now. You said so yourself, Bruce."

"Yes, that's true," the dark-haired vigilante agreed, obviously giving the situation a great deal of thought as he rubbed his chin. "Hm… Meara, I think that solves our problems. Is it all right with you?"

"Sure," Meara consented pleasantly. "Tim would be great company, too."

"Then we'll do that," Bruce put the matter to rest, leaving Tim pleased by the faith placed in his skills as he headed to the shower.

Shortly before the two of them were to leave a few hours later, Bruce pulled Meara to the side before she could pull a cardigan over her loose white button-down and black pants. Her black boots and tribal print cardigan remained the same from the previous day.

"I'm giving you a communicator," the billionaire explained without further ado, handing over a slightly different-looking earpiece to her slender hands.

Looking over the oddly familiar item, Meara debated, "But you already gave me an earpiece – the one Dick trained me how to use several days ago."

Smiling with the barest touch of patient condescension, the vigilante returned her debate with an unexpected reply, "That was merely an ear fob with two-way radio communication. This piece is a far better grade of communicator, such as the ones we utilize when out on patrol. It retains two-way radio communication, of course, but it also can become a multi-line conference connection and it has audio recording capabilities. You can alert emergency services in your location, send and receive audio messages, and contact specific frequencies with the proper signal codes."

"So this is the Bluetooth upgrade, so to speak?" Meara compared the variance in technology as best she knew how.

"That's close enough," Bruce allowed the analogy with a tiny smirk. "Don't ever turn the communicator on unless you hear a double-triple pitch pattern from it. Does that make sense?"

"Two beeps, then three beeps?" Meara ventured pensively, rolling the piece between her fingers with interest.

"Correct," Bruce confirmed, "It will signal three times in succession. Again, that is the only time I want you to answer it for the present time."

"Why would you need to call me as Batman?" Meara couldn't help wondering bewilderingly, pulling on her cardigan at last.

"You never know what might happen out there," was Bruce's cryptic answer.

Tilting her head to the side in ironic exasperation, Meara refused to accept that as his only explanation.

Sighing slightly in agitation, Bruce clarified reluctantly, "Here is a signal list. These are the patterns you would need to enter in order to contact the individual listed. If you receive the signal I just told you about, then answer the contact as soon as you're in a secure location."

Tim hurried down the main staircase on the tails of Bruce's explanation, putting his arms through the sleeves of a gray jacket as he went.

"I'm ready," the teenager explained, coming to a stop beside them, eyeing the communicator in Meara's hand with easy keenness that caused Meara to raise an eyebrow. "Finally gave her one of the good ones?"

"I didn't have time to finish it until now," Bruce explained, rolling his eyes at his youngest. "You two take care of yourselves. Tim, you're on duty right now. Clear?"

"Clear," Tim repeated much more seriously.

Nodding, Bruce wished them well, "Good luck."

"We won't be that long," Meara voiced her plan as she stepped through the foyer. "I'm not out to buy a trunk worth."

"You really should buy more casual clothes for here at the manor," Bruce contributed reasonably before the door could close. "Alfred purchased some, but not enough for working around the ballroom or lounging, I'm sure. He focused mostly on your role for the public, not your private relaxation or hobbies."

"I'll give it a glance," Meara partly promised and let Bruce shut the door behind she and Tim.

The two of them slid into the same nondescript gray car Bruce had taken to and from the airport. While disappointed they weren't taking Meara's flashy Maserati, the teen understood her motivations well.

"I just want to stay as low profile as I'm able, for as long as I can make it last," Meara had explained to him when Alfred had gone out to pull the gray car around to the front of the manor.

"Well, I suppose I can handle it for now," Tim had sighed with exaggerated sadness, making Meara laugh.

For all his youth, Tim definitely knew Gotham as he had said. His directions to the best shops for casual clothing were impeccable and straightforward; guiding them right to the heart of the city's shopping without actually venturing through it.

"Remind me to always take you along," Meara joked with the thirteen-year-old as they stood from the car and ventured into the first shop.

Clothing wasn't all that hard to procure for her simple, casual needs, which meant Meara had a good stretch of time afterward to really search for swimwear she felt comfortable in. All the shops seemed to boast only bikinis and strapless suits, however, leading Tim to suggest a specialty beach store in the higher end of town called Sandy Ray's Sun Shop. While reluctant to approach a single-purpose store, Meara didn't have much choice if she really wanted the style of swimsuit she'd been searching for.

And want it, she did. If she was going to learn to swim with four men around her, she absolutely would _not_ allow for the potential of a wardrobe malfunction. Bruce alone would have been enough reason for caution, Meara argued to herself; at the present time, very few things seemed as terrible as losing a bikini string or a shoulder strap in front of Batman himself.

With a broad selection of the preferred style and Tim's fun-loving teases and encouragement, teamed with consistent reminders that pools, parties, and charity often went hand in hand with the wealthy elite, Meara eventually – with incredible reluctance, it may be said – allowed the staff at Sandy Ray's to load her up with nineteen one-piece swimsuits in varying colors and some patterns, all with long sleeves.

"It looks like we have a lot of time to spare," Meara realized on their way to the car. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm almost always hungry," Tim laughed and got in the car. "I could murder some sushi right now."

"Then let's grab lunch," Meara laughed with him, backing out of her parking spot and preparing for heavy traffic. "Lead the way, Ninja Master."

* * *


	15. Chapter 14: Shared

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
As promised to a lovely reader, here is the link to my actor inspirations on Pinterest: **[TLW Character Inspired](http://www.pinterest.com/arganne/tlw-character-inspired/)**. All characters listed in order of appearance (most recent at the top). As certain characters appear for the first time in a chapter, I will add the actor/character on the board.

> **Chapter 14: Shared**

After a heavy helping of sushi at the Japanese bistro several blocks away from the beach shop, Tim and Meara had returned to the manor, each to their own devices. Meara took to unloading her new purchases, eventually leading her to begin a large-scale organization of the (hopefully) permanent Aerius room.

Everything from her shopping excursion with Dick found a home somewhere in the room, not including those things Bruce had yet to create or personalize for her. The work took a great deal of effort and by the end of it, Meara certainly didn't feel up to moving the clothing from the Caligo Room. She would just have to ask for Alfred's help, it seemed.

No more than two hours after they had returned, Tim arrived in the Aerius room to ask if she wanted anything to eat. When Tim told Meara he was almost always hungry, she hadn't realized how true that was.

"We just ate not that long ago!" she exclaimed in disbelief, staring at him in surprise.

"I told you I was always hungry," Tim shrugged, undisturbed.

" _Almost_ always, I believe you said," the young woman corrected with a lifted brow.

Tim just shrugged again, nonplussed.

"Wow," Meara muttered, shaking her head with a growing sense of amusement. "Thanks, but I'm still quite good from the bistro."

It was only once she heard the teen's steps recede that Meara snorted humorously, moving on with her reorganization, which lasted well until dinnertime. Rather than Alfred reminding her of the time, it was Tim who did so.

"Alfred says dinner is ready… And yes, I'm hungry again," Tim teased, leaving Meara laughing as they headed downstairs together.

Seated at another meal with the Wayne men, Meara found the new quiet enjoyable rather than stifling. Her experiences in Detroit had a strange effect on her perceptions of the past, giving her a bit of slack with which to move a little forward.

"Meara, do you want me to come with you tomorrow?" Dick asked, breaking the easy quiet of the dining table.

Brought from her reverie in confusion, Meara furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"First class?" Dick prompted with an amused smile, inciting Tim's bright laughter at Meara's expense.

"Oh!" Meara remembered the event as though she had just run into a brick wall. "If you don't mind, it might be nice to have a guide at first."

"No problem," Dick pleasantly confirmed. "You can drive, so you get used to it."

"Thanks," she nodded, equally pleased by the help she was given and terrified at the prospect of her first really public appearance as Meara Nolan in society.

"You're going to be fine, Miss Meara," Alfred assured her on his way back from the kitchen.

"Did J'onn drop in on us?" Meara joked half-heartedly, but it certainly got a good laugh out of Bruce's sons.

"Alfred is right," Bruce concurred with the elder man. "You're intelligent, adaptive, and quick-to-learn. Everything else will fall in."

"I hope you're right," Meara sighed, new anxiety in the pit of her stomach that lasted well into the late hours after she slipped under the covers.

Sleep came with difficulty in the first place that night, but when Meara woke from the usual insomnia, her anxious feelings made it seem far worse than it probably was. In contrast to her typical behavior, Meara's first reaction was a small slew of tears that forced her into the bathroom for tissues. Nerves in overdrive, the young woman dried her tears and snatched a few extra tissues on her way out of the room, robe already in place as she made the trip downstairs.

Light shone from the kitchen, a blessing Meara had almost discredited before coming down to check. Alfred stood alone at the counter, prepping greens, carrots, and cucumbers for some ungodly reason.

"Sleepless night?" Alfred greeted her sympathetically as she took the chair nearest his workstation with a slight thump.

"Yes," Meara verified quietly. "I can't seem to get my nerves under control, either."

"When I said you were going to be fine," the butler began, setting aside his paring knife to lean against the counter's ledge, "I meant it. Not because I'm trying to comfort you, but because I know it and believe it. Watching the way you've grown and integrated in our lives so far, how couldn't I know it?"

The firm words were the first thing to bring calm over Meara's mind since Dick brought up the subject of classes the night before.

"Thanks, Alfred," the brunette said far more sincerely than at dinner, smiling warmly at the apron-clad gentleman.

"You're quite welcome, Miss," he replied, a smile flashing over his features. Returning to his chopping, Alfred added, "Would you like anything? Tea? A snack?"

"No, thank you," Meara shook her head negatively.

"Are you positive?" Alfred pressed, only partly teasing in his words. "Warm chamomile does wonders for an anxious soul…"

Laughing on an exhale, Meara tilted her head in thought. "Well, if it really helps, why deny it?"

"That's the spirit," the elder man agreed jovially, setting his knife down again to put the kettle on.

Yawning overtook Meara while she waited for that telltale whistle to blow.

"How did your organization work out?" Alfred spoke up again, making casual conversation in the silence.

"Oh, it's all great," Meara answered. "I actually have room to spare now. I have no doubt I'll end up filling it a lot quicker than I think, especially once I move all the clothing from the Caligo Room, but for now there's extra room for maneuvering."

"I'm glad to hear it," Alfred smiled slightly. "I do agree, though. I believe once all of the technology and furniture is fully placed, there will be much less extra space."

Nodding, Meara went silent again, leaving Alfred to either wait out the quietude or fill the silence again.

With a slight inhale, the butler made his choice, turning back to Meara with an understanding expression.

"Are you quite sure you're willing to try swimming?" the elder man asked, concern filtering into his tone.

Inhaling more slowly and broadly than her companion, Meara had to ask herself the same thing.

"I don't know," she admitted quietly, "but it can't be safe or healthy to _not_ know how."

"That's true," Alfred nodded once, "but is the timing right for you? Learn it, by all means, but please make sure you're not overwhelming yourself with too much fear and anxiety. I don't want you to drive yourself over the edge."

"I don't think I'm quite that bad yet, Alfred," Meara half-laughed, conversely encouraged and emboldened by the Englishman's worry. Confused, but drawn by this newfound confidence, the young woman actually felt her shoulders ease down from their tense posture.

"As you say, Miss," Alfred acquiesced respectfully, gray eyes slowly losing their stormy concern.

The kettle whistled then, and Alfred turned to take it off the burner and turn off the stovetop. Alfred poured out two cups of hot water into a pair of ivory and yellow china tea cups Meara nervously expected were priceless family articles.

Chuckling with quick knowledge of his charge's fears, Alfred spoke soothingly, "These cups are everyday tea china, Miss Meara. Meant for daily wear and use. Please don't worry over the possibility of dropping them. They are easily replaced."

"If you say so, Alfred," Meara allowed, still picking up her tea cup rather gingerly.

"I do, Miss, I do," the butler chuckled still, doling out tea bags to each of them and taking a spoon to the honey jar. Careful servings of honey joined the rapidly brewing tea in their china cups and completed the warm, cozy beverage Meara and Alfred shared.

"Thank you," Meara smiled at the butler gratefully and settled into sipping the warm, lightly sweetened tea with a sigh of contentment she had not been feeling moments prior.

Alfred joined her relaxed posture, the first time Meara had seen him without his shoulders ramrod straight since her arrival.

"Do you really have to stand so stiff and straight all the time, Alfred?" Meara inquired, tilting her head at the man in his shirt sleeves. "I'm sure Bruce and the boys don't care if you loosen up around the house sometimes, like you're doing now."

"Hmm," Alfred hummed amusedly, a tiny smile on his lips. "Well, Miss Meara, I find that loosening up much of the day tends to loosen the mind as well. Eventually, one comes to view themselves as entitled to a measure of that ease all of the time. Even when they might not be. So I take my leisure very rarely."

Considering that for a moment, Meara finally shrugged. "I suppose it makes sense. If you make a habit of it, of course."

"That's how I feel about it, at any rate," Alfred agreed, taking another sip of his tea. "Besides, the more infrequently you do something, the more enjoyable it is to do when you get the rare chance."

Smiling, Meara responded simply, "I like that."

Alfred chuckled at her again and together they remained comfortably settled to finish their chamomile tea in the kitchen of Wayne Manor, tendrils of pale violet dawn peeking through the windows.

When Meara woke from sleep later in the morning, the clock read an annoyingly early ten-thirty, leaving the brunette with far less sleep than she needed or wanted. The time was also annoyingly _late_ for an entirely different reason – her first class at Gotham University began in three hours.

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Meara pushed herself out of bed and began to prepare for her day. Given the stress she expected to feel, the young woman opted for simplicity and ease of movement in a pink pullover and dark blue wide leg pants, matched by oxfords in cognac and dark blue. Adding a cognac weave tote and throwing a dark blue coat over her shoulder, Meara hurried to put a slew of new class supplies in the tote. The young woman slipped everything from her other purse into the new cognac creation as well and deemed herself ready.

"Hey, Meara," Dick greeted the young woman with a smile as she entered the kitchen. "Alfred left lunch ready for us. Just takes a little reheating."

"Hi, Dick," Meara greeted him in return, laying coat and purse on a chair. "Never thought my new normal would include a butler in any way."

"You're never really going to get over that, are you?" Dick eyed her speculatively, amusement fairly bursting in his blue eyes.

"Probably not," Meara chuckled, moving automatically towards the containers of pork loin, potatoes, and vegetables on the counter. "I'll reheat everything."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Don't worry about it. I think I can handle a few pots, pans, and knobs," Meara teased, nose wrinkled in good humor.

"Sorry I'm not so good in the kitchen," Dick lifted one shoulder in embarrassed acknowledgment.

"Oh, I'm used to it," Meara waved away the apology carelessly. "I'm fine working like this. It's just a part of me now."

The brunette reached for the cookware Alfred had graciously left out for their use, clanging and chiming overriding the silence for a few minutes until she settled everything.

"Besides," Meara continued after the last pot sat on the burner, its contents slowly heating. "I actually enjoy working in the kitchen. That might not seem very feminist to some, but I think the freedom to choose what I enjoy – without judgment from men _or_ women – is a measure of feminism."

"I hate the shaming in both sexes," Dick responded with a frown. "A lot of men expect other men to only be macho idiots who leer at women. If they're not like that, then they aren't a 'real' man."

"A lot of women expect other women to be perfect femme fatales, otherwise they aren't 'real' women," Meara added with a nod. "I agree with you, it's frustrating the way men and women debilitate their own equality. It's just as terrible as shaming from the opposite sex. Worse, perhaps, because they are defeating themselves with infighting before they ever reach a real battle."

"If you can't demonstrate for your cause, no one else will, either," Dick interposed.

"Exactly," Meara assented, leaning back on the counter with her arms folded across her chest. Changing tack in the following quiet, she asked, "What car are we taking to the university?"

"Doesn't matter," Dick shrugged. "Bruce just wanted me to watch out for you, regardless what vehicle we take. Might as well get used to your new ride."

"I guess so," Meara sighed slightly, then turned a side-eye to Dick as she added, "Flashy though it may be."

Laughing, Dick just comfortably waved off her sly comment.

Driving to the University with Dick guiding the way eased Meara's nerves a fraction and left her watching her surroundings far more closely than she might have done with a full blown panic under her belt.

"Go ahead and park over there," Dick pointed to a parking lot they approached, across the campus from where they had begun their tour a week earlier.

Pulling into a spot somewhere in the middle of the lot, so as to avoid intense attentions, Meara put the car in park and sat for very long moment, breathing deep.

"You're going to be fine," Dick laughed a little at her attempts at calm. "Come on."

Taking another deep breath for good measure, Meara grabbed her tote and her new keys before standing from the car as Dick did. As he had seven days before, Dick gained stares that slid away without acknowledgement. Passing people gave even less acknowledgment to Meara, leaving her to release a sigh of relief as they came to her classroom twenty minutes before it began.

"I'll be waiting here when you get out, okay?" Dick assured calmly and quietly, making sure no one truly heard him. "If you get out early, just call me. I'm not leaving campus."

"All right," Meara nodded, offering a little smile before heading into her first class of the week – Economics For Planners.

Susan Stein had little to say to her partially captive audience, sticking to the basics of rules, project completion, and grading before leaving them to read her course objective pamphlet. The thick packet covered twenty-three pages of precise theory and project details that no one would understand – no one without extensive architectural experience, at least.

In the two hours her class spent going over the premise of the course and the professor's outlined plans for the semester, Meara had to wonder why she was so anxious in the first place. Familiar and comforting, the classroom setting similar to her old life made everything feel normal, a precious thing of which Meara had obtained very little since arriving in a world of superheroes.

Dick stood waiting as promised when Meara exited the classroom, hands in his pockets with casual ease.

"How was it?" Dick inquired, muted in his expectation.

"Completely untroubled," Meara sighed, humor gracing her tone. "Everyone was right, of course. I didn't need to worry so much."

"From the way Bruce tells it, you know it all anyway," Dick threw in cheekily.

"I probably know a lot of it, actually," Meara confessed ruefully, toe scuffing the ground lightly as they walked to her car. "Mostly I need more information on commercial and professional work, specifically. I have a lot of designing under my belt, whether residential or commercial. But I really need to know the business side of things to make the best go of it."

"What kind of courses did you take before?"

"Well, I was in pre-architecture, if that gives you any ideas," Meara shrugged haplessly. "Mostly I designed interiors and structures using paper, pencil, and CAD. That's where I gained most of my designing experience."

"So you've gained all your experience backwards," Dick remarked with a little laugh.

"That's about what happened," Meara laughed herself. "Still, I'm rather excited to be in a design studio again. I love to sketch and design."

"I can tell," Dick remarked teasingly.

Meara waved him off amusedly and slipped in the driver's side of the Maserati with a shake of her head.

Between arriving back at the manor and walking into the dining room later that evening, Meara worked solely in the ballroom. Her host took keen notice of the new spring in the young woman's step at dinner.

"You look pleased about something," Bruce remarked interestedly, one eyebrow lifted.

"I finally cleared an entire wall space," Meara smiled contentedly, taking a bite of turkey before she continued, "thanks to Alfred bringing me that ladder… Granted, it was one of the shorter walls, but I still feel a pretty good sense of accomplishment."

"Glad to hear it," the billionaire added, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "How did your class go?"

"Fine," Meara shook her head at her own fears the past two days. "I can't believe how much I worried over it all."

"Maybe what really worries you is working at the company?" Bruce suggested more quietly.

Sighing a bit awkwardly, Meara tipped her head in acknowledgement. "I suppose that's probably it. Still, I'll be glad to go to classes tomorrow without having a panic session."

"What classes do you have left this week?" Tim asked interestedly.

"I have two tomorrow… Planning Theory and Methods with Everett Gibson," Meara recited the class schedule from memory, "then Historical Preservation Theory with Gregory Nelson. And on Friday, I have Planning Law with Isaac Tanner."

"Sounds like a mass of information you already have in queue," remarked Bruce.

"Well, I did take some slightly similar courses in Pre-Architecture," Meara confessed, her earlier conversation with Dick coming to mind. "But I'm sure there's plenty I haven't learned. Besides, everything has different earmarks in this world. Can't be too careful about learning everything significant in building and designing."

"There will be some differences," Bruce concluded thoughtfully. "With some of the technology we have – things your world probably lacked – there will doubtless be some changes and upgrades you need to know."

"Hopefully the rest of my professors are more interesting than Susan Stein," Meara commented in distaste, leaving the Wayne men to chuckle at her wrinkled nose.

In the wake of her concern on the teaching style of her professors that semester, Meara didn't think too much on the possibility of insomnia again. Yet, at three-forty in the morning, the young brunette made the same dash downstairs for a source of light and company. Alfred's presence in the kitchen seemed suspect at such an hour, but his preparations for breakfast appeared legitimate. Regardless, Meara appreciated his presence and the warm chamomile tea they once again shared into the dawn.

Given a few more hours sleep between sunrise and lunchtime, Meara felt a little better than her insomniac night might have otherwise portended. Classes once more overtook her thoughts and left her wondering on the mannerisms her instructors could possess right up until Dick walked her to her first class Thursday afternoon.

While Gregory Nelson taught Historical Preservation Theory as though their time was endless and their minds infinitely sponged to make up for his dry lectures, Meara's other course that day more than made up the balance.

Meara's planning theory instructor, Everett Gibson, exuded a casual friendliness that welcomed every one of his students into the classroom before he even spoke. When he did speak, his voice echoed the sensation of congenial warmth to a tee. Two hours never passed so quickly in the classroom before.

The moment Meara arrived back at the manor, Bruce pulled her into the lounge and looked over the finger she sliced open, removing the bandages and giving the injury a thorough once-over.

"Good to go," Bruce declared Meara's finger healthy. "The stitches are dissolved and your finger is healed and ready for normal use – or even extreme physical duress, if need be."

Relieved by the freedom of no longer being bundled in a bandage, Meara wiggled her fingers experimentally and sighed in relief, "I'm so glad to get rid of that bandage."

Snorting at her remark, Bruce put away his flashlight. "Let's just not repeat it ever again."

"I'm good with that," Meara half-laughed at the exasperated acknowledgment of her host. "Class will be so much easier. And thank God I don't need to wear a bandage when I start work."

"You _would_ be worried about that," Bruce retorted, long-suffering as he headed to the kitchen to throw the bandage in the trash bin.

In the wee hours of that Friday, Meara once again faced insomnia, a trip to the kitchen, and a night of sharing tea with a suspiciously awake and active Alfred Pennyworth. With another half-bout of sleep under her belt, Meara faced her last class with dread of a dull, nitpicking professor stuck at the back of her mind.

But Isaac Tanner had a penchant for humor that boosted interest in even the rather dull subject of legalities. Thankfully the course would only last half a semester. More than that in the way of law would sap Meara's energy worse than the lectures from Professors Stein and Nelson, even with as much as she liked Tanner's teaching methods.

Heaving a great exhale of relief as she and Dick drove back to the manor, Meara relished her completion of the first week of college in Gotham City.

"Feeling all right?" Dick inquired concernedly over the sound his companion exuded. The brunette smiled at him in comfortable acknowledgment.

"I'm good, actually," Meara informed him truthfully. "I'm just… finding it strange to be attending college in this world. It's so odd, in some ways."

"I can understand that," Dick agreed with a tilt of his head. "Some things are just too unreal until you've lived through them like this."

Meara nodded pleasantly in comprehension, happy to finally gain a measure of acceptance and ease in her new environment beyond Bruce Wayne's safe, private, comfortable home life.

Despite Meara's personal comfort with the new experiences she faced, Tim and Alfred took to a nuisance of bickering over a mixture of daily chores and the homework Tim was soon to engage in once school started for him on Tuesday. Meara half-wondered if Alfred allowed it merely to ease the tension with Bruce over Tim's patrol hours getting cut virtually in half.

Regardless, all throughout dinner that night, Tim and Alfred fenced words over the combination of homework and chores, one of which Meara already knew Tim actually loved to do.

"Tim, that's enough," Bruce finally cut firmly but amusedly into one of Tim's remarks about doing laundry on heavy homework nights, leaving the teenager acquiescently quiet as the meal ended.

Everyone went their separate ways, the three Wayne men to the cave to prepare for patrols, Alfred to partake of dish-washing duty before beginning his other duty as communications central, and Meara to work further in the ballroom.

In lieu of dropping off to sleep on the hard floor in her less-than-fluid outfit, Meara gathered herself and her personal supplies to head up to bed, hopefully for a restful, insomnia-free night – also hopefully her last in the Caligo Room. She could only hope. The covers cocooned Meara in warmth and softness, a welcome respite from kneeling and bending to clean the ballroom walls of their years of dust collection.

Darkness in the inky room Meara had returned to, sprung eternal and frustrating from the depths of heavy sleep, leaving the young woman to exhale slowly, attempting patience. Perhaps for once she had slept straight through…

Glancing at the clock, Meara sighed heavily.

Four-thirty.

Great.

Another night of sleep lost. Meara groaned internally and knew she would be heading to the kitchen as per usual. At least she might find Alfred waiting downstairs, puttering in the kitchen with deliberate intention as he had taken to doing the past three nights.

Groaning out loud this time, Meara dragged herself out of bed and threw on her favorite gray robe to head downstairs.

Finally reaching the kitchen at her now slightly slower pace, Meara walked into a room decidedly full of people – four people, to be exact.

Stopping in surprise, Meara wondered briefly where Alfred was, her stormy blue eyes fixed on the lone head of fiery red hair at the dining table, seated between Dick and Tim.

"Barbara Gordon," Tim cocked his head in the redhead's direction, not even looking up at Meara but focused on his food with interest. "Batgirl. Whichever."

"Thanks, Tim," Barbara rolled luminous hazel eyes, turning her attention to Meara rather than the slightly belligerent 13-year-old Robin. "Bruce had just started to explain about a very knowledgeable guest living here. I'm guessing that's you."

The redheaded crimefighter gave Meara a scrutinizing once-over, and the brunette understood the other young woman probably hadn't learned much before Meara entered the room. Accepting her critical gaze as normal with a strange invader, Meara finally answered, "That would be correct. My name is Meara Nolan."

"Maybe you should keep explaining, Bruce?" Barbara suggested a little awkwardly. "All I know is she's new, she knows, and you're okay with that."

Meara bristled only slightly at the indirect discussion when she was standing right there, reminding herself again that Barbara had been smacked in the face with a stranger invading their normal routine and all the secrecy Bruce had enforced all this time.

"Meara, would you prefer to explain?" Bruce asked her directly, rerouting Barbara's uncomfortable exclusion with subtle tact. Clear blue eyes spoke volumes of the billionaire's understanding.

"Not really," the young woman denied in discomfort, still standing in the doorway with her arms crossed rather defensively.

"Come over and sit down," Bruce offered with a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, offering up a hand towards Meara. "I'll explain it all."

Drawn inexplicably towards the welcoming hand of her host and the encouraging gazes of Dick and Tim, Meara stepped forward, taking Bruce's proffered hand once close enough to let him guide her into the seat beside his.

"I was about to explain to Barbara about your arrival," Bruce began again, gently setting Meara's fingers – one of which had just been freed of bandages and stitches after being sliced open only ten days earlier – on the arm of her chair as he turned to the redhead across from them. "No one has any actual idea how Meara ended up here, least of all Meara herself. In the middle of a fight with Devil Ray in downtown Detroit, Meara just… appeared… and Devil Ray grabbed her as a hostage. To put it in the simplest possible terms, Meara is from a completely separate universe."

Barbara blinked a moment over this sudden, strange explanation, then opened her mouth to speak, but Bruce cut her off not unkindly, "Not a _parallel_ universe, like the Justice Lords, but totally separate and distinct. There are no ties or connections between the identities in our world and Meara's world. She doesn't appear in any of the databases, nor do her family. I trust her because of the pieces of identification Meara had on her person when she arrived here. And J'onn searched memories of her family and the situation with Devil Ray, and found them all to be real and genuine."

"There's something else that convinced you, though," Barbara shrewdly deduced. "Isn't there?"

Bruce sighed and chuckled simultaneously before Barbara even finished her sentence, dragging a hand over his face a little tiredly. "I should have known you better. Yes, there was something else… Zatanna looked into her crystal and saw various places in Meara's life. Not all-inclusive, but enough to understand the general flow of her life and ascertain her honesty. Meara came from a world without superheroes or supervillains, no metahumans or aliens. The memories J'onn saw, as well as the corresponding images from Zatanna, all matched Meara's story."

"If there were no superheroes or metahumas or what-have-you," Barbara frowned, "then how could you know about us?"

Glad to at least be addressed directly this time, Meara took a breath before responding, "All of you were fictional characters in my world. In TV shows, movies, comics books, animated media… but not real live people."

The redhead's jaw actually dropped at that, however slightly, but after a minute or two the idea seemed to settle more smoothly and Barbara relaxed into her seat. "Well, I guess we've seen stranger things. Once or twice… I think."

Half-laughing at the amazement in the other young woman's hazel eyes, Meara shrugged. "You probably have."

"So… Bruce brought you here for safety, then," Barbara concluded reasonably.

"Precisely," Bruce concurred, seeming to relax minutely as the last member of the Bat clan accepted their newest resident.

"Sorry I was hostile at first," Barbara remarked with a wry smile, the shock finally dying away. "I like to have facts and data behind me."

"It must have been awkward finding some strange new person here, right in the middle of your team," Meara added understandingly.

"Yeah, it was a little odd," Barbara half-laughed herself, and the subject seemed to draw to its own close.

In the amiable silence that followed, it was Bruce who eventually spoke first, "I suppose you had another bout of insomnia tonight?"

"What else?" Meara sighed irritably. "I'm so _annoyed_ by this. If it was once in a while, that would be fine, but every single night…"

"You have trouble sleeping?" Barbara joined the conversation curiously.

"Almost every night since coming here," Meara admitted hesitantly. "I fall asleep and then wake up in the middle of the night for no reason. No real nightmares or dreams, just waking up all of a sudden. I still can't figure it out."

"Did you have this kind of problem before coming here?" Barbara asked, immediately backtracking when she saw Meara's vaguely suspicious face. Holding up her hands in acquiescence, the redhead explained, "I only thought it might be the new atmosphere, or a new home, or simply the whole situation here."

"I don't know," Meara shook her head. "I just know every night I've woken up randomly."

"No insomnia at the penthouse last week, though, right?" Dick wondered with furrowed brows. "You seemed really well-rested the next day."

"That's true," Meara nodded with a frown. "And I didn't have it the first night here at the manor. Or when Bruce took me to Detroit... Or that afternoon we returned, either… That's funny."

"I don't know what to tell you," Bruce commented a bit concernedly. "I can't think of any connections between all these nights at the moment."

"Did you wake up at the same time every night?" Barbara questioned, lips pursed in thought.

"No," Meara shook her head again. "It's always a different time. Although… well, I guess now that I think about it… it was always _between_ certain hours, even if the time wasn't exactly the same."

"What hours, if you don't mind me asking?" the redhead asked.

"About… oh… three to five in the morning," Meara answered with furrowed brows. "Last night it was actually six-thirty, but that's unusual."

"We spent a lot longer out on patrol last night, too," Tim remarked with a sigh. "Maybe it's just a thing right now."

"As a matter of fact, we came back about six-thirty, too," Dick mentioned with a shake of his head. "Maybe Tim's right."

"When do you usually get back?" Meara inquired interestedly, leaning forward in her seat. She still hadn't heard a great deal about their nightly patrols, even after almost two weeks living in Wayne Manor.

"Depends on the night," Barbara answered with a shrug. "Sometimes the bad guys have an extra flair for evasion."

Meara might have replied to that, but Bruce's eyes had taken a sharp, keen turn and she wondered what he was thinking.

"Bruce?" she wondered concernedly.

"How long does it generally take you to get downstairs after waking up?" he asked abruptly.

Taken aback, it took a moment for Meara to reply, "Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. Giving myself time to wake up. I also walk a little slower now that I've adjusted to the darkness in the manor a little more."

"Did you write down the time you woke up each night?" the billionaire asked sharply, now keener in his questioning.

"Yes I did," Meara told him, ever more curious. "Why? What are you thinking?"

"Can you show me?" Bruce requested a touch gentler than before, seeming to realize his approach had grown intense.

"Of course," Meara agreed without question, rising and heading out of the kitchen, Bruce quick on her heels. As they absconded the main staircase, Meara explained, "I always keep it in the bedside table, if you ever need it."

"I'm not going to go digging through your things, Meara," Bruce exhaled exasperatedly.

"It's your house and your room," Meara denied adamantly, adding as an afterthought, "The things in there are yours, too, if you really think about it."

"Regardless," Bruce interceded more calmly, "I deem that space _your_ room, and I refuse to dig through it like a thief."

Stepping off the staircase, Meara sighed and shook her head, "Whatever you say, Bruce."

It took a mere minute to open the drawer of the bedside table and pull out the sheet of paper Meara had been jotting down dates and times on. Bruce accepted the page from her hand, glancing over it with an interested gaze.

Finally looking up at Meara with a discerning expression, the billionaire asked another question, "Are you planning to try and sleep again, or will you be awake for a while?"

"Definitely awake," Meara replied instantly.

"Do you feel comfortable coming down to the cave?" Bruce queried with genuine concern.

Thinking about it for a few minutes, Meara weighed her feelings about the darkness and her need to understand what Bruce was going on about. Her driven curiosity won out by a large margin, and she nodded decidedly. "I'm okay with it."

Giving her one last perceptive glance, Bruce nodded also, "Then change into something warmer and more rugged. I'll wait in the hall."

Taking his advice to heart, Meara rummaged through her clothing and pulled out a pair of blue jeans and a multicolor flannel button-up, also grabbing a comfortable bordeaux jacket and a pair of brown ankle boots with flexible side cuts. The boots boasted a three-inch heel, but the grips on the bottom of the boot matched perfectly with Bruce's rugged suggestion and made Meara feel better about her balance on any wet spaces in the cave.

Waiting out in the hall as promised, Bruce still glanced at the sheet Meara had given him. Not speaking, Bruce guided Meara to the grandfather clock, hands hesitating over the clock hands until the billionaire seemed to decide something.

"Watch," the crimefighter murmured quietly, carefully showing Meara the way the hands aligned to open the secret entrance. Breathing in with deep surprise, Meara wondered over this sudden decision, but Bruce had already closed the clock again and gestured for her to reopen it. With a couple hiccups and Bruce's help, Meara opened the entrance at last and the billionaire gestured for her to go through.

They traveled into the depths of the manor's foundations, the curling staircase seeming far longer than exiting had felt two weeks earlier. Emerging into the cave at last, Bruce further guided Meara, walking over to the computer system and settling into the waiting chair. The hero's fingers flew over the keys, stopping only once Bruce had pulled up some kind of chart.

"These are the times we entered the cave's outer entrances and then secured the perimeter for the night," Bruce explained, his voice unerringly quiet over the whirring and chirping of computers, the distant rush of flowing water, and the bats softly squeaking and flapping far above their heads.

Shaking the errant observations away, Meara focused on the chart described to her, her comprehension slow to come. "I don't understand what you're trying to say."

Wordlessly, Bruce held Meara's sheet of dates and times up beside the figures on the monitor, his strong hand steady as the young woman examined the two pieces of data with a more careful eye.

Realization dawning, Meara slowly turned away after some long minutes of study to stare at the master of the house.

"I wake up every time you come back from patrol!" Meara exclaimed with excitement, amazed at such a simple explanation. "It makes so much sense now."

"When we exit any of the cave's entrances," Bruce explained further, a smile blooming at the corner of his mouth, "the generated energy kicks on, creating a lot of noise. After thirty minutes, the system finishes its checks and processes, then goes quiet again. The same thing happens when we return in the early hours. Tim heard it in his room before, when Alfred tested the system, but it didn't faze him so I didn't bother with it. No doubt you've been hearing that sound in your room every night you've woken up."

"What about my first night, though?" Meara wondered doubtfully, even with the charts aligned so nicely in front of her. One night could break the whole explanation.

"In the first place," Bruce offered in concentration, "You'd been through an ordeal that whole day. You're body needed a lot of recuperation, so you slept straight through until Tim woke you up. Secondly, patrol was already finished that night. Third – and I wish I'd told you this sooner now, even if it doesn't specifically apply here – my mother's four special rooms were soundproofed for serenity. I could never bring myself to remove it, even for security's sake... It would have damaged her beloved retreat."

The thought obviously bothered the billionaire now, his brows furrowed into sharp divots against his tired face.

"Well, I think…" Meara tried to begin, heart winched with sympathy, but felt entirely out of her depth attempting to comfort a man who had never truly moved on from his parents' murders so many years earlier. But… he had been good to her. Understanding in a way she had temporarily thought lost. Surely he couldn't begrudge her the thought to help him? She hoped not.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Meara pulled her hands out of her pockets and reassuringly laid one across Bruce's shoulder and the other over his bicep through the black t-shirt he wore.

"I didn't know your mother," Meara haltingly began again, watching as Bruce's head dipped fractionally in attentiveness, "but I guarantee she would have wanted you safe much more than she would want her rooms to be kept perfectly in tact. You were your parents' world, after all."

"And they were mine," Bruce murmured almost too quietly for Meara to comprehend, but somehow she did. It hurt just to hear the pain in his voice. Knowing how he felt, the brunette simply squeezed the hero's shoulder understandingly; there was no real comfort for that loss.

Meara allowed Bruce time to reflect without interruption, gazing around at her surroundings to give the man his time.

A cacophony of steel, stone, Kevlar, and leather took up the small embankment they were on. An underground pool of water sloshed slightly against the rocky surface, but it was difficult to see it. In fact, given the selective lighting of the area, it was difficult to see _anything_ beyond the stone on which they stood, only the computers and chairs shining slightly in the moody overhead lights.

On a metal work surface just outside the half-ring of computers and monitors, Meara's eyes caught on something the made her take a second look.

The same light device Catwoman had given her more than a week earlier stood out light a beacon.

Gasping in remembrance, Meara gripped Bruce's shoulder with what – to most people – would normally be bruising force.

"Bruce!"

Looking up with a start, the vigilante asked, "What is it?"

"The chip Selina made for you! I forgot all about it that night!"

Bruce stared momentarily before inquiring further, "When did you meet Selina?"

"Last Thursday, the same day I met Zatanna," Meara clarified, mind running over that night with intense focus. "But where did I put that chip…?"

"She came to the manor?" Bruce sighed heavily.

"Yes," Meara confirmed, still deep in thought until the situation played out in her mind. "Oh, I put it in my pocket! I have to go find that."

"I'll walk up with you," Bruce offered, standing and guiding the young woman back upstairs to the Caligo Room. It took a minute to find her outfit from a week earlier, but thankfully Alfred had not yet taken it to the laundry. With all the commotion of Meara's arrival and the trip to Detroit, she wasn't surprised.

"Here we go," Meara commented to no one in particular, pulling up the pair of dark fitted pants from the previous Thursday and digging through the pockets to find the little chip Selina Kyle had claimed to make rather than steal.

"This is it," the young woman told Bruce once back in the hallway, handing over the data chip to his nimble fingers. "She said to tell you to replace the light device she gave me. As repayment for skipping out on her."

A loud snort escaped Bruce over the last condition. "All right, then."

"The one she gave me is still on the cart in the ballroom," Meara explained.

"You can keep it," Bruce shook his head, adding wryly, "Sometimes I wonder if Selina is just a very grown up girl playing games."

"There is always that possibility," Meara casually shrugged her agreement.

Smirking, Bruce led the way back to the grandfather clock. "Coming with me?"

"Does this mean my questions of what and why will get answered now?" Meara wondered with a slight smile.

"If you want," the billionaire offered.

Another few minutes and the two of them had settled back behind the computer screen in the batcave, Bruce pulling up an extra chair for Meara to occupy.

"I don't really need to know," the young woman admitted, a wry smile gracing her features. "I could just look around…"

"I'd rather not have you exploring without one of us," Bruce confessed with equal levity, "The cave is a bit more intense than a gauntlet mechanism, quite frankly."

"Oh, very well," Meara sighed and took a seat beside him. "What data did you need Selina to gather?"

"Ever since Harley spread Ellipse around Gotham, there's been a theft ring operating out of Selina's neighborhood," the dark-haired vigilante began to tell Meara, catching sight of her expression all too easily, "…Yes, I know. The irony is not lost on me, either."

Meara repressed a grin admirably as her host explained further, "But Selina hasn't set about murdering seemingly random victims for a thrill."

"That would certainly raise the bar," Meara concurred more seriously.

"She's been watching the area and gathering a variety of possible clues," Bruce went on. "Odd arrivals and departures, new residents, new daily and nightly rituals, contacts between residents, etcetera. I had her practice surveillance for a week."

"But it's been several days since that ended," Meara's brows furrowed. "I'm so sorry. If I'd given this to you sooner, you could have been dealing with this and possibly stopped it."

"There haven't been any fresh incidents," Bruce disagreed. "Besides, Selina shouldn't have left it with you. While I trust you, she had no idea what you might be dealing with that could prevent you giving this to me. Regardless, I have it now."

So saying, the vigilante held the chip up for emphasis and placed it inside a container the held several other data chips very similar in design.

"I'm guessing you gave her a chip to use?" Meara hypothesized with a lifted brow.

"I did," was all Bruce told her, rising from the seat.

"Wait, aren't you going to get working on that?" Meara inquired wonderingly.

"Not yet," Bruce remarked, an amused glint in his blue eyes. "We'll all look over it tomorrow night and head out to track down any leads we find. Now, I believe you wanted to look around?"

"I wouldn't argue the idea," Meara hedged lightly.

"Then come on," Bruce nodded towards the space around them; a space that somehow, outside the shell of technology and stone beneath their feet, was filled with old costumes, rugged vehicles, and shiny new tech.

* * *


	16. Chapter 15: Assured

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
I decided to retcon Meara's height. Originally, in Chapter 1, I had her standing at five feet, four inches. She is now five feet, six inches tall. Seems like I write a lot of really short people, so I decided to make a change.

Much of the bat cave's design is totally from my own head, minus those few parts taken from the animated series, _Justice League_ , and _The_ _Dark Knight_ trilogy.

> **Chapter 15: Assured**

The first thing Bruce managed to explain about the bat cave was, of course, its technology. All the computers stood bright and shining against the darkness of the cavernous space.

"Obviously these are computer workstations," Bruce told Meara, gesturing at the whirring, chirping components all around them. "Not much to explain about all of this, except that it's the most advanced technology you could manage to find almost anywhere in the world. Computers and other technology are scattered throughout the entire cave. There are multiple ways to get in the other sections of the cave, some on the ground and some above our heads, but we mostly use the ground levels when not in costume."

"What are the different exits?" Meara wondered.

"Grandfather clock and corresponding stairwell back through this corridor," Bruce began, pointing out the same path they took to arrive in the current space. "And actually, there is an exit right here in this room. The waterfall entrance is directly opposite this embankment. From the outside, the entry doors have been made to look like the stone facing of the cave."

Splashing through puddles behind Bruce's easy gait, Meara gasped out loud as lights flashed on all across the cavern around them, bursting to life like the sun had risen in the cave. The one vehicle Meara had actually ridden in, but never knew where it disappeared to, sat off to the right on its own cliff.

"Impressive, of course," the brunette laughed like a little kid at the grand flying machine parts sprawled around the space in both full bodies and spare pieces. "Not that I like riding in that thing… but… impressive."

Exhaling in awe at the sight of a familiar black structure rising from the water as it had in _The Dark Knight Rises_ , the most recent innovation of the batmobile sitting on its platform, Meara accepted that her wildest, grandest visions of the bat cave had just been thoroughly trounced by the real thing.

Chuckling genuinely at her reaction, Bruce offered a hand to steady Meara'a uneven steps on the stone beneath their feet and helped her onto the main walkway lifting to connect the platform to the rest of the cavern. There were two shorter bridgeways connecting the central platform to either side of the spacious cavern. On the right, the batwing sat surrounded by parts, frames, and tools all in neatly organized placeholders.

"This is amazing!" Meara breathed excitedly. "It's like walking into your own dreams. All the things I always loved coming to life here."

Turning to look back at Bruce, energy and thrill brimming in her dark ocean eyes, Meara added excitably, "You have no idea how much I've always wanted to see a live version of the bat cave!"

Snorting, Bruce nodded understandingly. "It was a fantastical world you could lose yourself in. To imagine was only a pale imitation of physically investigating such an environment."

"Do you have old versions of your vehicles still?" Meara asked, a bounce in her voice and step.

"Follow me," the vigilante offered secretively, waving an arm towards the left side of the black platform.

Across the left bridgeway, the two of them walked straight to multiple levels of cliff-like protrusions rising far above their heads. Judging by the reflections bouncing off of some kind of barrier at various points, Meara assumed a vehicle sat behind each one.

"Be careful through here," Bruce warned her seriously. "I'll watch for you, but you need to be aware of the ledges and condensation on the way up."

Making note of the precarious edges and surfaces all around her, Meara paid a good deal of attention to her feet as they moved slowly across the protrusions, stopping at each clear barrier to view a different vehicle. Bruce's steadying hand against her back felt infinitely more reassuring than her own questionable ability to balance in the unexpected environment.

"Ooh, that one is retro," Meara murmured in amusement at the first vehicle they saw; it had a certain nineteen-eighties flare about it.

Snorting again at her humor, Bruce shook his head. "It didn't last long. Too much weight on the hood."

The next batmobile incarnation wasn't even a full vehicle, but half a black hull with a definite scorching along the rough edges.

"I can guess what happened to that one," Meara remarked with a funny expression that scrunched her nose and mouth.

"Bomb," Bruce explained anyway. "The hood was too weak to last through the explosion, so I tried the heavy hood we just viewed."

Nodding in understanding, Meara allowed him to lead her up to the next level. "So, as far as when the vehicles were made, we're going backwards in time, right?"

"Exactly," the vigilante confirmed.

"Do any of the intact vehicles still work?" was her next intrigued question.

"Only eight of twelve," Bruce responded, a bit disappointedly if Meara was any judge. "I've been working to try and fix that, but it's not working as well as I'd hoped."

They stopped at every vehicle in turn, each becoming bulkier in total shape and size until finally their steps carried them to Meara's personal favorite. Exhaling a heavy breath in geeky excitement, Meara put her hands flat against the transparent barrier between them and the original incarnation of Bruce's batmobile.

"The tumbler," Bruce announced with knowing humor. "I believe this is the one you mentioned."

"Oo-oo-oh," Meara actually squealed in delight. She couldn't believe the sound came from her own throat. "This is so _cool_! Favorite, right here, yes. Yes, yes. _Total favorite of mine_."

Bruce laughed quietly in his chest at her amazement and enthusiasm, leaving Meara grinning even after she forced herself to calm down a little.

"I love this car," Meara couldn't help saying, leaning her head back excitedly to look Bruce in the eye. "Tank… Whatever… I just love it."

An exasperated, long-suffering expression overtook Bruce's face at the continued commentary, but he didn't say anything about it.

"It did have a built-in bike pod," the billionaire confirmed instead, without the young woman even asking the question.

Breathing in with disbelief, Meara pulled away from the glass and leaned forward towards Bruce to ask with greatly repressed energy, "Do you still have it?"

Smirking deeply at the brunette for her childlike fascination, Bruce silently offered a hand to help her back down. Only they didn't go back across the platform. Instead, they followed the top cliff all the way across towards the waterfall and a piece of the rock facing began to grumble and shift, finally slipping open onto a small, well-lit tunnel. Inside the cavern at the end, Meara realized her question had been answered – more than answered, really.

A whole fleet of bikes and smaller land gear flooded the area. Most were not covered like the batmobiles, yet none were coated in dust. At the far left side, Meara caught sight of the very bike she had been looking for.

"I swear, this is the most glorious bike I have ever seen!" Meara told her host, the excitement building back up again as she traveled the smooth floors so different from the cave path. "Did you make a new one of this, too?"

"Yes, it's over there," Bruce waved at the wall to Meara's right. "The far right motorcycle is the newest version. All of them are functional, though. It's one of the quickest methods of travel for us, so Dick and I keep them up in case of emergency."

"Which is basically every other week," Meara commented as though it were a normal discussion. "But those newer bikes are nowhere near as awesome as this one. You do know that, right?"

Bruce just shook his head at her.

"We haven't even seen anything to do with medical or training or costumes…" Meara stated amazedly, glancing back at him impressed. "I mean, just how many parts are there to this place?"

"A few," was Bruce's understated answer, another smirk playing about his lips.

Rolling stormy eyes at the billionaire, Meara moved forward to look at each bike incarnation with great interest, and then led her own investigation of the motorcycles still in the midst of fixing.

"Wow," the young woman uttered, shaking her head in never-ending wonderment of Batman's broad range of talents, skills, and resources.

"You haven't seen anything yet," Bruce retorted amusedly, a grin almost escaping him before he reined it in.

Suitably energized and provoked for their next stop on the tour, Meara followed Bruce's gesturing fingers towards the entry corridor and back through to the waterfall cave again.

"We'll go past the stairs," Bruce insisted, waving an arm at the corridor between the waterfall cavern and the entrance beneath the grandfather clock. The longer tunnel curved a bit, then widened out to reveal ten times as much computer and technical equipment as they had seen in the first cavern.

"Ohhhh my God," Meara breathed, stepping back in surprise over the sheer expanse of the cave as it sprawled out before her and stretched eons above their heads. From where the young woman stood, she could see three tunnels leading elsewhere, in addition to what she now realized was actually the true center of the bat cave.

Multiple different cave walls featured long metal work surfaces with any number of advanced technologies and computers sitting on top. At roughly the center of the room, two large tables with computers took up most of a raised circular platform.

Far and wide across the area, Meara could see an extensive training area that didn't stop at merely ten or twenty feet above them. Training apparatuses ran as far as the bottom of stalactites in some places. Some even utilized stalactites in the apparatus itself. Interwoven with all the equipment was a variety or workout gear, half of which Meara would have to ask about to even know what they were.

"This is… beyond anything…"

There were not enough words in any language under the sun to describe how awestruck Meara felt.

Bruce sounded very pleased with himself when he commented, "Would you like to see the rest of the caverns?"

"Wow," Meara repeated herself, coming back to reality very slowly to retort, "You have to ask?"

Chuckling, Bruce led her through the main area and on across the training floor, Meara's head on a swivel as she tried to take in every amazing sight on the way.

Eventually, the two of them moved into a smaller space filled with storage chests and trunks, shelving and tables, hooks and hangers. Every inch of space beheld some tool, gear, or resource that Batman's team used out in the field.

"Armory," Meara noted with a new thrill in her veins, her awe tempered only by her intense curiosity.

"I don't think there's enough time in one night for you to adequately explore this area," Bruce dryly concluded, turning back.

"I don't think there's enough time in one _year_ for me to adequately explore this area," Meara countered, reluctantly following the billionaire through to the center of the cave again.

"Over here," Bruce started describing the cave again, pointing to a tunnel across from the clock stairs, "is an elevator that leads through a bookcase, opened—"

"—by a piano," Meara and Bruce completed the sentence in complete synchrony, the billionaire turning in surprise to stare at his new charge.

"Films?" he hypothesized.

"Exactly," Meara nodded, face exuding a humble joy. "I have to say, it's kind of neat, and fun, to already know some things."

Given his foreknowledge of Meara's fascination with superheroes and all that came with that title, Bruce didn't bother to feel annoyed by her small feelings of pride.

"Each exit route leads in a different direction, then?" asked Meara.

"Roughly, anyway," Bruce added informatively. "I would consider the clock entrance southeast. The waterfall is east, the lake northeast, and the piano northwest."

Moving on, the dark-haired vigilante led Meara into a tunnel further to the left of the elevator entrance and past a long wall of computers.

"This is our medical bay," Bruce explained, allowing Meara to walk ahead of him into a very different looking space. Rather than the rock walls of the cave, this area had been treated to and overlay of solid, clean, neutral walls and gleaming floors. Amidst med tables, rolling chairs, and more computer systems, there were carts already full of what Meara deduced to be standard treatments after an average night of patrol. An x-ray machine sat against a far wall, along with numerous other machines Meara didn't have a name for yet.

On an off glance above, Meara saw a frosted ceiling of some kind. Arching her neck to peer up at the near-transparent barrier, Meara frowned in curious thought.

"What is that made of?" she wondered.

Looking up as well, Bruce quickly replied, "Those are transparent ceramic panels made of a substance called 'celucent.' Far superior to glass in durability, holding up in weather conditions, chemical resistance, and withstanding bullets. Plus, it can be insulated against extreme temperatures."

"Why don't people use it instead of glass, then?" Meara considered confusedly.

"Too expensive, for one thing," Bruce answered with a shrug. "And the one downfall is its lack of clarity. People don't want a cloudy window impeding their view."

"But down here, for what you need, it works," Meara guessed.

"Yes, it does," Bruce nodded leading the way back towards the central cave. On their way out, Bruce pointed to a doorway just to the right of the med bay entrance. "Bathroom and shower area."

Coming back into the central space, Meara needed no guide to notice a display across the way – one she had been looking forward to almost as much as the vehicles.

"Wait," Meara stopped abruptly at the thought of the batmobiles, Bruce coming to a sudden halt behind her. "If you ever had to use one of the old batmobiles, how would you even get it out? They're up on cliffs!"

"Wouldn't want it to be too easy, now would I?" was the only response Bruce gave, leaving Meara frowning with frustration.

"Go on and examine the uniforms," Bruce prodded with a smirk.

Wordlessly, but giving her host the stink eye all the while, Meara headed into the more open space housing the various costumes for Batman's team. Each piece was wonderfully kept, not a scratch on the housed outfits in their gleaming glass cases.

All except one.

Eyes glued to the last Robin costume on display, far at the other end of the cases, Meara knew without asking whose it had been and why it failed to match the other pristine uniforms that came before it.

Quietude stifled the space in which they stood. Meara knew that Bruce understood her hesitation and silence, but she didn't dare ask on this one point. Too much dark, rusted red tainted the tattered edges of that costume.

"Any questions?" Bruce eventually asked, voice the softest Meara had ever heard it, but it was a genuine inquiry.

He would answer.

If only she asked.

Turning away from the costumes with a decidedly blank expression, Meara answered surely, "No."

Meara did not catch Bruce's eyes and he said no words in response when she made to leave. Their trip up the staircase was all too quiet for several moments.

"I'd like to start you on some reading material tomorrow," Bruce brought up after a moment, waking Meara from her empty feelings with a jolt; she hadn't precisely expected him to bounce back in a matter of seconds. "I've created a booklet about Wayne Enterprises for you to study before you start work. It's about the company's origins, the various ways it functions… You'll need to know every department and what it does. The overall process in which those various departments interact, who answers to whom, prominent external contacts, and a hundred other items."

"You _made_ it?" Meara wondered with slight incredulousness.

"I started working on it after our discussion in the library you're first morning here," the billionaire explained easily. "I knew you'd need a good jumpstart to ease your transition at first. After learning more about you every day the past two weeks, however, I began to realize you wouldn't need it for very long. But I'd rather be safe and give you every piece of information I can."

"I guess I'll get started on that tomorrow," Meara agreed with a tired sigh.

Exploring the bat cave didn't _seem_ like such a daunting or tiring task in the long run, but by the time Bruce and Meara made it through the grandfather clock, the young woman had in fact become quite sleepy.

Taking her rest one more time in the Caligo Room, for the sake of simplicity if nothing else, Meara awoke much better rested and ready to take on her wardrobe move to the Aerius. Pulling on a casual working outfit of a light blue button-down, black leggings, and black flats, Meara quickly headed down to find something to eat for her afternoon of work.

Meara didn't expect to find Barbara Gordon in a gray sweater, blue jeans, white converse, and a high ponytail, leaning on the kitchen counter and eating oatmeal with blueberries.

"Hi!" Barbara called to Meara with a smile. "How did you sleep?"

"A lot better," Meara answered, walking over with a slightly bewildered expression. Admittedly, in the wake of touring the cave and realizing the source of her insomnia, Meara forgot that she and Bruce had left three people behind in the kitchen. "I'm just glad I know where the insomnia stems from now."

"Oh, you do?" the redhead looked up in surprise.

"I guess Bruce didn't say anything," Meara deduced interestedly. "I've been woken up by the cave entrances opening and closing."

"The end of patrol," Barbara realized, hazel eyes shooting heavenward for a moment. "That makes sense! No wonder Bruce looked so sharp when we were discussing it."

"At least when I move totally into the Aerius room, that might not happen," Meara commented with relief. "Unless Bruce does decide to remove the soundproofing, at which point I'm going to be in trouble as far as getting proper rest is concerned."

"I doubt he will," the other young woman shook her head. "He won't want you to miss out on sleep. Anyway, it's gone soundproofed this long without a problem."

"Good point," Meara shrugged, gauging the saucepan still half full with oatmeal. "Mind if I…?"

"Go ahead," Barbara gestured at the pan gladly. "There are bowls up in that cupboard, spoons in this drawer over here, and there's fresh fruit on the plate by the stove."

Grabbing a bowl and spoon in the indicated locations, Meara filled up on oatmeal and mixed in sugar and raspberries.

"I thought Alfred and the guys already moved all your things to the Aerius?" Barbara queried confusedly after a few minutes as they stood eating. "Dick told me when I asked what they were doing this weekend."

"Everything except my clothes and accessories," Meara explained. "Alfred wanted me to be able to do so myself. I'm very independent usually."

"So am I," admitted Barbara. "I have to say, though, it can be hard to argue with Alfred's skills."

"Especially with food," Meara added knowingly.

"Especially then," Barbara laughed. "I can't cook much beyond oatmeal and boxed potatoes. So for me, it really makes sense. Alfred said you can cook pretty well, though, so I imagine that might get frustrating eventually."

"Not really," Meara decided truthfully. "When it comes to good food, I won't argue."

Finished with her oatmeal, Meara pushed off from the counter's edge and set her bowl and spoon in the sink alongside Barbara's. "I better get working before I lose the energy to move my clothes. It's a pretty hefty pile thanks to Alfred and Bruce."

"Would you like some help?" Barbara offered. "I'm mostly just hanging out today."

"I can't imagine saying no," Meara half-laughed. "Thank you."

"No problem," the redhead smiled again, following the brunette up to the Caligo Room with curiosity in her gaze.

With a rather dramatic swoosh, Meara flipped the closet doors wide open.

"Oh, wow," the redhead said incredulously upon seeing the full closet awaiting them. "I mean, you're not the first woman in our little world with this kind of wardrobe and I understand the need in your position… but wow."

"That is a lot of clothes," Meara agreed, only now truly seeing the wide range of items in her new wardrobe. "And that doesn't include whatever is in the dresser and the chest of drawers."

"Well," Barbara rubbed her hands together. "Looks like we better get started. Lead the way, Meara."

"Let's just carry it all over to the new room first," the brunette in question suggested. "Then I'll sort it out once we're done."

It took four trips between rooms, both their arms full of clothing that seemed heavier every subsequent time, before Meara thought of a very practical idea that might speed up the process.

Barbara later confessed wryly, "I'm glad you thought of using this cart. It took a load off the work, I must say."

"I just figured if I wasn't using it in the ballroom right now, we may as well use it up here."

"The ballroom is starting to look so much nicer, by the way," Barbara informed Meara as she helped fold the last of the brunette's jeans.

"Thanks," Meara replied gratefully, folding up casual tops for the dresser. "I hate seeing a lovely room wasted like that. To think Bruce almost refused me on those efforts…"

"How hard was it, living with four bullheaded guys for almost two weeks?" Barbara asked her ruefully, to which Meara realized only now how little she'd bothered about being only with male company.

"You know, in the moment," Meara replied thoughtfully, "I didn't even think about it. I'm pretty used to living with male company. But now… I guess it was pretty ridiculous and dramatic on occasion."

Laughing at the descriptor, the redhead agreed, "Yeah, that sounds like them."

Shaking her head, Meara laughed as well.

"I just realized we wear about the same size," Barbara remarked out of the blue.

"You're a little bit taller, though," Meara detracted. "I'm five foot six and your old workout clothes were a little baggy on me."

"I'm only a half-inch taller than that, actually," Barbara explained with a wave of her hand. "But they're bound to be baggy on you because I've lost weight. Those were made when I first joined the guys. Bruce made them for me, but I didn't like them much. I'm not a fan of white and black stripes. Reminds me of jail. Granted, stripes aren't actually jail gear anymore, but you know what I mean."

Snorting, Meara just shook her head at the idea. "Good to know."

With Barbara's help, the process of moving clothing into the proper places in the Aerius worked much more quickly and Meara thanked her profusely for speeding up the process.

"Now I have plenty of time to go work in the ballroom during the daytime," the brunette told her companion gladly. "And tonight I can sleep in a soundproofed room without worrying over insomnia."

"I'm glad to help," Barbara responded to the emulsion of thanks. "But I have to wonder… is the ballroom so desperately in need of attention today? I mean, why don't you just take some time and get used to the city?"

"That sounds helpful," Meara hesitated as they strolled back down to the main level.

"You don't sound so sure," the redhead remarked with a small laugh.

"I'm not sure why I think so much about working…" confessed Meara, "Habit, I guess. And… well, I can't make a solo trip at this point in time."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a girls' day out," was Barbara's mutedly excitable suggestion, the redhead tilting her head over to look at Meara with encouragement in her luminous eyes.

"You're really starved for girl company right now, aren't you?" Meara gathered with good humor.

Throwing her gaze off to the side with casual carelessness, Barbara shrugged and tried to reply offhandedly, "That _might_ have a little something to do with it."

Losing her composure with a small snort at the obvious act, Meara decided her course for the day much less stringently than usual. "All right, Miss Gordon… You're on."

"Deal, Miss Nolan," Barbara retorted with a repressed grin, smacking a pair of jeans on the covers with decisive, enthusiastic force.

Rather unsurprisingly, Meara and Barbara ended up spending time at the library first. The redhead was all too enthusiastic to show off her workspace, wherein she acted as assistant to the main librarian.

"I love the smell of books," Barbara sighed pleasantly in the middle of the historical section. "Old paper, fading ink, worn leather… it's comforting."

"I love books, too," Meara allowed a little laugh to escape her in the quiet atmosphere. "Maybe not that much, but that's okay."

Laughing a little as well, Barbara shrugged carelessly and turned to exit the aisle with a smile.

"So, where were you at the last week or so?" Meara wondered inquisitively, following behind the readhead.

"I went with my mom and my brother to visit her family in Ohio," Barbara explained. "Dad was in the middle of a case and couldn't leave, so just the three of us went. Not as much fun as you might think."

"You don't like your relatives?" Meara wondered with a frown.

"They don't really understand me," Barbara explained with a shrug. "I think fast and dream big. I want more than they do. Gotham is my home; to them, it's just a diseased city that can't really be saved. To them, my dad is fighting a useless battle. To me… he's always been my hero."

A warm smile lit Meara's face at the admission, tempered by an unhappily dark emotion she buried deep from her companion's gaze. "I don't see anything wrong with that."

"Neither do I," Barbara half-laughed, a smile adorning her own nostalgic features. "So, what kinds of books do you like, Meara? Well, I hope we have some of the same books and authors between worlds."

"Tolkien and Shakespeare are two of my favorite authors," Meara answered thoughtfully.

"Those we have," Barbara laughed quietly.

"I love Grimm's Fairy Tales, Sleepy Hollow, and Canterbury Tales, too," Meara continued, glad for some similarities. And… well, when I was younger I loved Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. Mostly I like fiction, but I do love reading about art, music, and architecture as well. What about you?"

"I'm big into nonfiction, actually," Barbara admitted with a small laugh. "Sciences, technology, biographies, engineering… Otherwise, I only really like science-fiction – Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Orson Scott Card, Mary Shelley, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells… "

"While I know those names, I don't particularly care for their stories," Meara shrugged. "Except for Mary Shelley. Frankenstein was a really great read."

"I totally agree with you," Barbara nodded interestedly. "Matter of fact, I think I'll check that out and read it again."

In the ensuing silence, their feet traveled most of the library, crossing the carpet calmly and patiently while the hour passed by in steady minutes. Conversation failed as they each became in engrossed in perusing books along the way, hazel and blue orbs equally absorbed in mismatched subjects ranging from geography to music to biology to art.

Meara and Barbara left with a stack of books each, contrary to Meara's original expectations when entering the library in the first place. Barbara was persuasive, though, convincing Meara to obtain a library card in short order. For classes, at least, it would be useful.

Giggling at their own overzealousness as they pushed out of the front doors with their shoulders in lieu of free hands, both young women accepted the situation with good humor and moved on to the multitude of bookstores Barbara planned to visit, dropping their books in the Maserati along the way.

The last of their visits stood head and shoulders above the rest of the shops, not only in actual physical stature, but in the quality and quantity of books lining the dark wooden shelves throughout the store. Meara practically goggled through the broad-paned glass windows, making Barbara laugh.

"This is the biggest and brightest bookstore in Gotham," the redhead informed Meara as they passed through the revolving glass doors and into a coffee lounge lining the front wall of the business.

"I guess modern bookstores don't change much," Meara commented with a puff of laughter, lowering her voice to add, "Even between universes."

Snorting, Barbara decline to respond to that remark, leading Meara further into the store. Just as with the library, they both became absorbed within moments, roaming shelf after shelf of tomes to explore. Brand new flimsy paperbacks, leather volumes meant to appear as old as some of those at the library, hardbacks in colorful shining covers, it was all there in the store. Meara needed little nudging to buy more than she really needed at the moment.

"I suppose I'll need most of these anyway, when I start at Wayne Enterprises," Meara wryly remarked upon the architectural and business-themed volumes she purchased.

"Not that Bruce Wayne couldn't buy them for his new protégé," Barbara teased as the headed back to the car.

"Protégé!" a cheerful, overly-energetic voice sounded almost directly beside the two young women, each jumping at the startlingly loud sound. "Bruce Wayne personally took on someone new at the company?"

"You're ears are a little big, don't you think?" Barbara commented with a sharp decline between her brows as they turned to face their interloper.

Dressed well in a sharp red skirt suit, the red-lipped woman behind them stood on the shorter side, even in tall black pumps, but she exuded a bold confidence and fearlessness that made up the difference. Black hair hung in a styled wave and exotic, almond-shaped violet eyes sat hooded by thin, dark eyebrows marshalling a very small point at the top.

"Lois?" Barbara asked incredulously, a tinge of concern in her voiced Meara almost missed in her shock at meeting another infamous member of the Justice League's adventures.

"Barbara, I didn't realize it was you!" Lois Lane laughed with the same assuredness that oozed from her wide, white smile and straight posture, offering a casual handshake. "How are you?"

"I'm doing all right," the redhead responded, accepting and shaking the other woman's hand. "What brings you to Gotham?"

"Oh, just a celebrity farce," the raven-haired woman rolled her eyes widely. "Mayor Keendale attended a New York state water safety campaign in Bludhaven. They're the epicenter for the campaign after their recent water crisis. When the mayor didn't show up for his planned appearance this morning, Perry shipped me over for a scoop. Turns out Keendale spent the time with his mistress here in Gotham. Not that big of a story after what happened with Senator Henley last week, but it's something to keep me going. Unless Bruce's protégé is up for an interview?"

Fast-talking and keen of vision, Lois Lane stunned Meara into speechlessness as the words washed over her and the woman's piercing gaze pinned the brunette to the ground on which she stood.

"Um, well, Meara's not up for—" Barbara tried to explain.

"Meara? That's your name?" Lois cut in instantly, jumping on the clue and training her eyes back on the young woman in question. "What's Bruce hiring you for?"

"It's just Urban Planning," Barbara tried to brush off the position when Meara failed to reply, sending Meara a lifted brow as prompting.

"If Bruce is doing the hiring, it's not ' _just'_ anything," Lois remarked, then drilled again, "Is it an internship?"

"No, nothing special like that," Barbara tried again, her attempts at playing off the new job failing pretty rapidly.

Once again, Lois rammed the door of the conversation, "Then which position is it? An assistant? It couldn't be much more. She's obviously too young to have any more experience than that."

Proving her career choice as reporter took just as much importance as Meara had always read about or watched, Lois already had a pad and pen in hand, jotting down notes at astronomical speed.

"I'm sure you can get all this information from Clark Kent," Barbara finally threw the comment from left field, leaving Meara to stare at her instead of Lois Lane.

Lois' head snapped up at a nauseating pace and her eyes narrowed, pen frozen above the notepad. "Clark knew about this?"

"He did visit the manor two weeks ago," the redhead shrugged, visibly feeling more confident. Meara just felt resigned. Pitting Clark's reporting career against Lois' career was never a good idea.

"Just like him to keep this from me," Lois scowled, then exchanged her anger for cold certainty, "Oh well. He's not going to get the exclusive interview. He clearly didn't get it when he came here, otherwise Bruce Wayne personally hiring a new employee would be all over the front page by now. My victory, his loss."

"I am _not_ doing an interview!" Meara finally freed her tongue from its captivity, aghast at the very idea of slamming her inexplicably close relationship with handsome, single, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne out into the public view. How much harder would her job become if everyone thought she was having an affair with her boss? Meara didn't like to imagine the possibilities.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lois waved her off unconcernedly. "Everyone can accept a leg up and some recognition to move further in life."

"I don't need any of that," Meara immediately retorted, losing her temper already and pulling out the basic black cell phone she carried now. "I'm calling Bruce. He'll explain everything."

"You have him on speed dial?" Lois wondered with slow curiosity, both eyebrows rising with surprise as Meara held the button to call Bruce.

Rolling her eyes as broadly as Lois had moments earlier, Meara ignored the remark and waited out three rings before Bruce picked up.

"What's wrong?" the billionaire's smooth voice had taken on traces of Batman, although not yet reaching the gravel of the cowl.

"Lois Lane. Please talk to her," Meara did not hesitate to respond, rushing her last words to him before Lois practically ripped the phone away from her with an impatient hand.

"Bruce, come on," the reporter snapped into the phone. "It can't hurt the girl to get an interview."

A brief pause stole over the conversation, until Meara heard Bruce's voice pick up again. She couldn't hear his words, but his tone didn't seem overwhelmingly upset, which made the brunette feel marginally better.

"Everyone has troubles, Bruce," Lois snapped again, exhaling irritably.

Another pause, longer than the first, took over the discussion while Bruce spoke again, but this time Lois' eyes narrowed with concern as the talk wound down.

"All right, I can do that," the dark-haired woman eventually agreed cautiously, leaving Meara incredibly curious what she was agreeing to. Rather than answer the inquiring expressions tossed her way, Lois wordlessly turned the phone back to Meara.

"Bruce?" the young woman questioned, voice repressed with doubt.

"Come back to the manor with Lois," Bruce informed her without his usual mysticism. "We have to tell her."

"Are you sure?" Meara wondered, biting her lip doubtfully.

"If we don't, I know exactly how that article is going to be run," Bruce sighed heavily. "I can do the talking. You don't have to worry about it."

"Fine," Meara sighed as well, ending the call with further resignation.

Ringing startled the three women before they could discuss their new plans, Barbara digging out her phone in a hurry to look at the screen.

"I have to take this," the redhead informed them apologetically, answering rapidly, "This is Barbara."

In a matter of seconds, Barbara's face turned grim. "I'll be there. Thank you."

"Dad's in the hospital with a concussion," Barbara exhaled nervously as she put her phone away. "Car chase went wrong. Mom's at the hospital now."

"Do they think he's going to be okay?" Meara asked, brows dipping low on her forehead.

"It's the waiting stage right now," Barbara answered, eyes drawn tight. "I'm sorry, I need to go."

"No, don't apologize," Lois assured the younger woman, "We can find our way to the manor just fine."

"We'll drop you off," Meara insisted firmly. "I can take your books to the manor, if you want."

"That would be wonderful," Barbara smiled in spite of her worry. "Thank you."

"Let's go," Lois nodded for them to leave.

After dropping Barbara at the hospital entrance, eerily similar to the one in _The Dark Knight Rises_ , Lois gave Meara surprisingly patient instructions to get back to the manor. Lois Lane knew her way around Gotham pretty well for a Metropolis resident. Driving up to the Wayne home, Meara questioned just how long Bruce had dated the reporter once upon a time.

Alfred opened the door with a congenial smile at their guest, easily taking both ladies' coats as they stepped inside.

"Welcome back to Gotham, Miss Lane," the butler greeted, offering Meara an encouraging nod.

"Thank you, Alfred," Lois smiled gladly at the older man, keeping her bag, notepad, and pen in hand.

"Lois," Bruce called, his steps drawing both women to look over at him as he crossed the floor in black slacks and a light blue dress shirt. From the wry expression drawing in his features, the billionaire expected a bit of a challenge in facing off with the intrepid reporter.

"Bruce," Lois met his wry nature with long-suffering expectation, arms crossed and one foot jutted to the side.

"Come into the lounge," the vigilante knocked his head towards the room he came from. "We'll talk."

With a pot of tea and a pot of coffee now hot and ready on the coffee table, Lois eased into the sofa casually and much more comfortably than Meara ever expected, sipping on a cup of coffee. The woman seemed to have no doubts about her intentions or her ability to make them a reality.

"All right, Bruce, time to start talking," Lois began the conversation with brute force.

"Meara isn't from our world," Bruce cut straight to the chase, leaving Lois blinking a moment. Meara had to wonder just how few times her host had been so bald-faced in his explanations. "She came from an alternate version of Earth where you and I are merely characters from the pages of a book. Aliens, metahumans, cyborgs, and demigods don't exist there. Our lives – or enough details to cause trouble, at least – are put out for public consumption in comics, films, television, and other sources. I don't think I need to explain to you how dangerous it would be if that information or Meara's true origins came to light."

Lois remained silent for a long while contemplating Bruce's direct answer, perfectly manicured red nails tapping on her notepad with intense concentration. As Meara grew ever more impatient and discomfited by the tap-tap-tap of the reporter's fingertips, Bruce simply sat back in the same patience he always garnered when waiting out a problem he knew the solution to.

With her usual shoot-from-the-hip method of persuasion, Lois recovered at last from her thoughts and set forward into Meara's new normal with a punch of brazen certainty Meara wished she could harness for herself.

"All right, here's my proposition," Lois offered, lips pursed in thoughtful focus. Meara felt equal parts disbelief and lack of surprise that the relentless woman still wanted an interview. "You give me your story. Your… version of events, so to speak. We meet somewhere public and obvious for an interview, but kept away from the public gaze. Standard procedure interviews for me end up in restaurants these days. People tend to feel better divulging on a full stomach for some reason. Regardless, you meet me as an up-and-coming designer waiting to spread her wings in the urban planning field. When I heard about Bruce Wayne suggesting his… what are you calling her, anyway?"

Those sharp violet eyes caught onto Bruce, who calmly replied, "Renovator."

"Renovator, right," Lois rolled her eyes slightly at the very uninteresting term. "When I heard my old friend Bruce Wayne was hiring his… inspirational… renovator for the beginnings of her urban career, I just had to tell the world about her humble beginnings and her chance meeting with the man who has helped so many people on the same revolutionary road to success… Blah, blah, blah. We'll figure out the rest at the restaurant."

Having been so drawn in by the poetic words, even leaning forward unconsciously in her engrossment, Meara snapped back to reality by the startlingly anticlimactic ending.

"We're… _actually_ doing this?" Meara heard herself speaking without understanding her own voice. Her stormy eyes traveled to Bruce's unsurprised icy orbs with shock. " _Really_ , Bruce? You can't tell me there isn't a hoard of things wrong with this scenario."

Bruce sighed in his chest, burdened by hard choices Meara had not yet realized she would be involved in. Even still, the reality of her new life, new world – her new _universe_ , for God's sake – hadn't settled in fully for Meara. This whole situation had begun to move far beyond merely starting an assistant job and settling into the city.

"The more we put out there, the less curiosity you'll be subjected to on a more… personal level," was all Bruce appeared to be willing to say.

"What he means," Lois added blatantly, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned forward in interest, "is the more details we give about your personal life, the less likely people will think you're sleeping with your billionaire boss in return for a promising career."

"If it gets out there that Bruce personally hired me," Meara cut in as if talking to a very slow first-grader, "the gossip is going to lead right back to me being an easy A."

"People are a lot more gullible than you think," Lois waved the concerns away like a fly. "If we can lend enough drama and tragedy to your origins, people will be too sympathetic to feel as much suspicion about your relationship to your handsome employer. They'll just see him as the beneficent benefactor."

Bruce smirked at the backhanded compliment, something Lois neatly ignored in favor of her story-of-the-week.

Observing the clear acceptance and agreement of her host paired with the boundless persistence of her interviewer, Meara could see no way out. "I still don't like the idea. You know that, right?"

"When is a good time to come to Metropolis?" Lois asked as though Meara had not even spoken.

"Why Metropolis?" Meara questioned, thankfully at least gaining an answer this time.

"Less likely to draw attention to you," Lois told her simply. "People there won't have seen you yet or learned anything about you."

"If Meara has to start work, she'll be working before lunchtime," Bruce offered.

"My classes are all after lunch Wednesday through Friday," Meara added resignedly. "The latest ends at four-thirty."

"Well, it doesn't do much good if you haven't even started work yet," Lois frowned, returning to tapping her notepad in thought. "I need to get your impression of being on the job. You'll have to let me know when you start working. Then I'll figure out a place to meet for the interview."

A phone began to ring shrilly and incessantly, prompting Lois the rip the device out of her bag and frown at the display.

"Kent," Lois answered sharply, inciting Meara to prevent laughter by biting the inside of her cheek. Bruce offered the young woman an eye roll for the gesture. "What do you want?"

"Oh, you wanted to make sure I got my big story of the week?" Lois suddenly spoke sweetly, forcing instant suspicion in Meara. "Well, I guess you should have thought of that when you met Bruce Wayne's latest hire two weeks ago!"

The abrupt about-face in tone nearly undid Meara's composure, Bruce's humorous smirk only adding fuel to the fire.

"Yes, I'm in Gotham still," The reporter went on in answer to an unheard question. "Yes, I'm with her and Bruce Wayne right now."

Accompanying the words was a roll of the eyes that rivaled all that had come before it, Lois appearing to be standing on her last leg of patience with her fellow reporter.

"You really want to go down the alley of ex-boyfriends?" Lois retorted as a final send-off. "I can do my job perfectly well without reverting to type, thank you, Clark."

Bruce sighed agitatedly at the blue boy scout's audacity in even bringing up the former relationship between billionaire and reporter, but Meara couldn't help trembling with silent laughter at the obvious worry on Clark's side. Lois eyed the young woman with fearsome eyes that did nothing to dampen Meara's amusement.

"You're right," Lois finally ended the call, "It _isn't_ any of your business."

If the phone had been an old style landline, Meara could only have imagined the brute force with which Lois Lane would have slammed the receiver back down onto the cradle. All the same, the black-haired woman put her cell phone away in her black bag rather violently, taking a deep breath to cool off – however minutely.

"Let me know when you start work," Lois practically commanded, chin tipping up with her selfsame assuredness returned in spades. "At that point, I'll determine the specifics of your interview."

"We'll contact you," Bruce promised in Meara's stead. The brunette remained locked in a valiant effort not to laugh out loud at Superman's worry that Bruce would steal some future chance with Lois away from him.

"Something wrong, Meara?" Lois questioned with the same false sweetness, irritation in her gaze.

Letting go at last, Meara allowed her laughter to shoot forth in a breathy gasp of humor. "Sorry. Oh my Lord, I am _so_ sorry. But Clark worried about you and Bruce getting back together is hilarious!"

Giving in to the funny bone her soon-to-be interviewee couldn't repress, Lois concluded in acquiescence, "We're not even dating, but he still gets worried sometimes when I see Bruce for any reason."

"Oh, and even when that's never going to be a possibility," Meara added with a shake of her head, still smiling.

"Yes, the um… other side of the coin just didn't work for me," Lois confessed, eyes directed with mild apology towards an undisturbed Bruce.

The vigilante only shrugged in reply, "I understood your reasons."

"And, of course, Clark doesn't realize the opposite applies to—" Meara began, but stopped abruptly as she realized just what she was about to reveal. Just because Lois knew about Bruce didn't mean she knew about Clark…

"Oh, don't make me laugh, hon," Lois erupted into a short burst of laughter along with Bruce's chuckle, calming enough to add dryly, "I know who Clark really is."

Relaxing infinitesimally in the wake of that information, Meara leaned back more comfortably in her seat. Laughing again, Lois stood with Bruce and reached out an arm to him. Although the blue-eyed businessman exuded a long-suffering air, he did allow the reporter he once dated to bestow on him a one-armed hug with bruising force. In return, the billionaire dropped a brief kiss onto Lois' cheek.

"If only Clark were outside with those x-ray peepers," Lois teased, a catlike grin espousing her wicked violet gaze.

Bruce snorted at the same time Meara laughed delightedly. In a matter of minutes, Lois Lane had gone from one of Meara Nolan's most annoying acquaintances to a source of excitable good cheer she hoped to meet again.

"Thanks for finally giving in," Lois winked at the younger woman jokingly.

Rolling her eyes for umpteenth time that day, Meara just shook her head, "Whatever you say, General Lane."

"Ugh, please don't call me that," Lois made a disgusted twist of her features. "There is no reality out in the great wide universe where I would want to be my father. Being his daughter is enough of a disaster, thank you very much."

"So I guess he does hate aliens and metahumans?" Meara presumed disappointedly.

"To the letter," Lois sighed, but perked up again. "Enough about Sam Lane. I have a great interview coming soon, a mildly important article to write up, and I just told Clark off – again. It's a pretty good day. I better get going now. Perry won't be happy if I don't get this story in before the morning edition."

"Thanks for taking enough time to listen," Meara offered reasonably.

"You're welcome," Lois responded with a little smile, letting Bruce walk her back out to the foyer.

Meara's soon-to-come interview was one of the most important topics of discussion at dinner that night, topped only by Dick and Tim's amusement over Clark's jealousy, and Jim Gordon waking from a mild concussion. Barbara's phone call interrupted Bruce preparing to discuss Meara's travel plans to Metropolis whenever her interview occurred.

"Keep us updated," Bruce informed Barbara at the end of their conversation, putting the phone back in his pocket.

"I always liked him," Meara commented. "I'm glad he's okay."

"A lot of people like Jim Gordon," Dick added, nodding his understanding. "He's a good guy."

"That he is," Bruce concurred simply. "Now, Meara, depending on when your interview is, I may not be able to go with you. It may even be better that way. Best not to pander to the social gossip machine any more than we already will."

"I could probably go," Dick suggested. "My classes are all earlier than Meara's, so I'll be done by the time she's ready to leave for Metropolis."

"That will work," Bruce nodded in agreement. "You'll be home in time to get some sleep before any of your early classes, as well. Lois isn't going to dawdle around with this."

"I'll have traveled more in a month than I have my whole life," Meara wondered at her new world for the thousandth time. "I can't believe I get to see Metropolis."

"It's a glistening city," Bruce told her. "But you need to be careful. Superman has as many enemies waiting to pounce in Metropolis as Batman does in Gotham."

"Do you always refer to yourself in the third person?" Meara couldn't help asking with a disbelieving air.

Merely staring at her for the remark while Dick and Time laughed over their plates, Bruce eventually just turned back to his meal with a shake of his head. Resigned to not having an answer, Meara shrugged and sighed as she returned focus to her own dinner.

Rising with the sun that easy Sunday morning, Meara felt relaxed as she had not felt for days. Years, if she were honest with herself. Luxuriating in the feeling occupied far more time than the brunette imagined it would. Even so, she wished the feeling could last all day. Nevertheless, she rose with a sense of importance she didn't quite understand. Shrugging it off, the young woman rose and readied herself for the day at last, casual in blue jeans, a red striped top, and white running shoes.

Barbara remained at her dad's side in the hospital, so Meara wouldn't be able to talk with her as they had the previous day. Jim was going to be just fine, but the redhead wasn't about to leave unless she absolutely had to. Meara supposed she would spend her time in the ballroom.

Heading down to what she realized was a rather late breakfast, Meara scolded herself for getting caught up in the sunrise so easily. When she began work at Wayne Enterprises, that would be completely unacceptable to indulge.

"Good morning, Miss Meara," Alfred greeted her as she sat down to the right of Bruce. Dick was absent, but Tim sat on his father's left.

"Good morning," Meara offered in return, smiling at all three males in the room. "Where's Dick gone to?"

"He's with Barbara," Bruce answered distractedly, looking over papers of some kind while his breakfast sat getting cold.

"Moral support, he said," Alfred remarked, winking at Meara conspiratorially. Tim rolled his eyes, bringing a snort of laughter from the young woman.

The meal passed with little other conversation, leaving Meara more energetic than she needed. Tim looked exhausted and Bruce remained absorbed in his paperwork. Alfred returned to the kitchen to do the dishes once they had all 'eaten their fill' – which essentially stood as code for Bruce's half-empty plate. No one seemed surprised, least of all Alfred.

"I'm going to swim," Tim informed them, still tired and dragging his feet as he rose and moved to the doorway.

"Be careful," Meara found herself saying, bringing Tim's surprised gaze around to her. Shrugging awkwardly, the brunette only said, "You seem overly tired."

"Okay," was Tim's easy reply, a little smile passing over his face.

Once the teen Robin's footsteps faded from hearing, Bruce's attention on his paperwork instantly ceased. Startled, Meara blinked emptily until the billionaire sighed.

"Christina Fenwick went into labor last night," Bruce explained without any superficial chit-chat. "She gave birth to a healthy baby girl this morning."

Meara could have sworn she misheard Bruce's words; she was certain she didn't have to start her job so soon. The job she wasn't nearly ready for, the interview that came along lock, stock, and barrel with the new career. She hadn't even started Bruce's reading material on Wayne Enterprises…

But Bruce wasn't smirking – this was no joke.

"When?" was Meara's simple question, leaving Bruce to sigh again far more deeply.

"As much as I would like to give you more time," the billionaire began apologetically, "The board would start to wonder what I was doing if I waited weeks for a specific person who had no formal prior training in the position. We need the job filled as soon as possible."

"How soon is soon?" Meara repeated her basic question.

"This week," Bruce explained, straight to the point.

If she hadn't been sitting in chair already, Meara might very well have landed on the floor for her shock.

"I know it's close, I know it's not going to be easy," Bruce asserted understandingly, leaning forward as he assured her, "but you can do this. You have the booklet to look through and you have all of us as resources, even Lucius. Besides, believe me, if you can handle Lois Lane hell-bent on an interview, you can handle pretty much anything that comes your way."

Burdened by stress before she even started the work she agreed to so many days before, Meara couldn't laugh at the subtle joke.

"I hope you're right," she responded quietly to her host, slumping into the chair disheartened. The sense of importance she had risen with now made all too much sense.

Meara just wished it didn't.

"I'll call Lois," Bruce informed the young woman, exhaling wearily at the situation and pulling out his cell phone.

Given her promised interview, the bold reporter didn't appear to waste any time answering the phone call. Her loud, excited voice came across even to Meara's ears beside Bruce.

" _When does she start the job?"_

Rolling his ice blue eyes at the woman's overly enthusiastic response, Bruce told her the simple details, "She starts shadowing this week."

" _Great! I'll plan for Wednesday, then."_ The amount of cheer in the woman's voice should be illegal, Meara decided.

Bruce looked to Meara for approval, but the young woman merely shrugged. Everything would happen at once, whether she wanted it to or not.

Concerned by the careless gesture, Bruce nevertheless answered Lois, "That will be fine. Meara's class ends as three-thirty. Plan for dinner."

" _Got it! Thanks!"_ Lois hung up without any form of farewell, leaving Bruce rolling his eyes for the tenth time since being approached about the interview in the first place.

"I suppose I need to call Lucius now," Bruce spoke again, searching for the number while Meara continued to sit in melancholy. "Why don't you go sit poolside? Tim would appreciate the company and it might calm you."

"Sure," Meara responded blankly, not entirely certain why that would help, but willing to try anything to ease her nerves now that they had been shoved into overdrive.

As Meara left the dining room, she could feel those sharp blue eyes riveted to her back even when Bruce greeted his Chairman.

"Lucius. Christina had the baby."

Before Meara passed out of earshot on her way down the hall, she just barely heard as Bruce quietly finished his explanation.

"Meara's starting on Tuesday."

* * *


	17. Chapter 16: Covered

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:**  
Gianna (pronounced "jahn-ah") is an Italian name which means 'God's gracious gift.'

> **Chapter 16: Covered**

The sudden shift from loping through classes and lazing on a Sunday afternoon to preparing for work at a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate under what was sure to be gossip and curious co-workers instilled an immediate sense of anxiety in Meara, topping off the nerves she already lived with regarding the upcoming interview and her general social status, not to mention living in a city notorious for its bold criminal element. Batman or no, that wasn't an easy thing to forget in Gotham City; not after all she knew about comic characters.

For two days, Meara fidgeted in every way possible and couldn't manage to sit still, even when trying to prepare for her new position with every piece of knowledge Bruce, Dick, and Alfred could offer. She slept even less than usual – her insomniac hours spent reading Bruce's company information booklet like a Bible – and couldn't bring herself to eat what she normally would, which didn't help.

Bruce made the most headway keeping her sane; practicing the driving route to Wayne Enterprises all through the weekend and giving Meara energy-boosting snacks when she didn't eat properly, but nothing truly took off the edge of beginning her new position.

Easy daily tasks of showering, applying makeup, pulling her hair into an easy low ponytail, and slipping into her clothes that morning took so much nerve-wracked thinking that Meara was extremely grateful for Bruce's previous help putting together a simple first-day-on-the-job outfit. A white button-up and navy dress pants with a simple tan belt at least didn't stand out like a sore thumb.

At the last second, Meara recalled she had not asked about shoes and panicked for a whole five minutes before making herself sit down in the door of the closet and pick a matching pair. Simple and surprisingly comfortable with such a tall sole, her dark blue ankle strap shoes seemed professional enough. Panic only mildly abated, Meara went down to breakfast with her purse and navy coat clenched in tight fingers.

Whatever little breakfast she ate that Tuesday morning, she could hardly have told anyone what it consisted of. Before Meara even finished the meal, Alfred had already gone upstairs trying to make sure Tim got ready in time for his first day of eighth grade.

Bruce had to leave earlier than Meara did, heading up to the company so he could give Lucius some preparations to consider. And, no doubt, to inform the Chairman of the Board how much intense anxiety would affect their newest hire's performance on the brand new job. Were she in a better mood, Meara might have laughed at that.

Instead, the young woman forced herself to head to her new, flashy white car. The gleaming vehicle fairly well screamed 'attention-getter', but Dick sighed at her nerves and pushed her forward to the driver's side door.

"No one is going to think anything about this car," he told the brunette in a no-nonsense tone that he probably didn't even realize came from Alfred. "The job was offered with a signing bonus. It's all perfectly normal in this world, okay?"

"If you say so," Meara remarked tightly, forcibly pushing her fingers under the door handle to open the car. Dick sighed, at a loss how else to try and improve her mood, but Meara didn't think anything could improve her mood except having an excellent first day on the job. However far from reality that expectation – or rather, hope – could be, the brunette had to hang onto it.

"You have the key card Lucius sent you?" Dick settled for asking, resigned to Meara's moody persona for the time being.

"In the front pouch of my purse," Meara confirmed, patting the area on her bag rather listlessly.

"And remember," Dick repeated from their preparatory talk with Bruce not long before, "if anyone asks how you're so close to any of us, it's because you, me, and Barbara became friends when you started renovating the manor. It's true, anyway."

"That makes it easier," the young woman remarked more sarcastically than intended, leaving Dick to roll his eyes.

"Keep that up, Moody Blues," he muttered, but changed topic before Meara could say anything, "All right, you've got your card and your alibi. And hey, your story has a good potential to squash those ridiculous 'I slept with my boss to get where I am' rumors. Right?"

"God, I hope so," Meara replied far more genuinely, swiping at her face with a light touch so as not to smear makeup.

"You're meeting Lucius at the same entrance Bruce took you through a couple weeks ago," Dick reminded her of one more detail. "Now go on. You're going to be great. We all know it. You just need to know it, too."

Sharing a slightly terrified, but appreciative expression, Meara finally slipped inside the Maserati and set out on her first solo driving expedition in Gotham City.

For the first leg of the journey, heading out on the winding road between The Palisades and the city, Meara's anxieties lessened to an extent; the long, empty, forest-lined drive soothed her soul with its fresh, green, peaceful appearance.

When the stone and metal of the city began to edge into that peace, nerves returned anew. Meara had to take a deep breath to calm herself and actually make it through town. Yet each turn began to hit her in a wave of intuition, recalled only because of the many times Bruce had talked the brunette through every direction on the way.

Wayne Enterprises grew in size and proximity on the last street until Meara at last turned into the parking ramp on the left side. Heading all the way to the top of the ramp as Bruce had shown her the first time they visited the company, Meara parked and sat there for a moment, gauging her own nerves with a critical eye.

Deciding, in the end, that it wouldn't get better the longer she waited – and certainly not if she was late – Meara turned off the car and made herself rise from it without hesitating. Firmly shutting the driver's side door behind her, the young woman nearly marched herself down the familiar wide corridor.

Using her temporary key card, which had been made with executive access in mind, Meara slipped inside the building, the small entrance area thankfully empty of employees at a half-hour past the typical start time. Instead of climbing the stairs at her right, Meara headed straight across to the elevator and traveled up.

With a quiet 'ding' that still felt loud in the confines of the near-silent space, the elevator finally came to a stop at the fifty-ninth floor.

No sooner had Meara stepped out into that same pristine hallway than did a familiar rich voice meet her ears.

"Miss Nolan," Lucius Fox spoke warmly. Meara looked up to find the tall man heading towards her. "When I heard the elevator bell, I knew I'd better start walking. Welcome back."

"Thank you, Mr. Fox," Meara replied, nerves showing through in the slight tremble to her voice. Humiliated, Meara closed her eyes and exhaled in frustration.

Chuckling quietly, the company president reassured her, "It's all right. Believe me, you couldn't be any worse than Annette was on her first day. She could barely speak without squeaking. By the time we're through all the red tape of your first day here, I bet you won't have a wobble at all."

"I hope so," Meara murmured, hoping to keep the wobble to a minimum.

"Bruce was just here a few minutes ago," Lucius informed the brunette as they walked back towards his office. "He said you'll do wonderful if you can let go of that cloud over your head."

Rolling stormy blue eyes as she exhaled a slight laugh of disbelief, Meara shrugged helplessly, "So speaks the man with a thousand worlds of confidence in his system."

Laughing more loudly at the comment, Fox admitted wryly, "Well, Bruce does live on a whole other plain of existence when it comes to confidence."

"No kidding," Meara sighed again, following the businessman's gesturing hand towards a seat facing his desk. Sitting down almost felt like a flop of movement, but Meara knew it was just her emotions tricking her.

"All right," Fox continued more professionally, sitting in his own chair with a thoughtful look at the papers all across the desk. "I know Bruce made you a packet of information about the company, but I just want to cover the basics of your department before you start."

"Okay, sounds good," the young woman nodded her agreement, cursing that slight shake still in her voice. "I like repeating important information. Especially right now."

Shaking his head at her anxiety, Fox merely went on with his discussion – diving right in, "The director of Urban Planning is Neil Davis. Light on the surface and he likes to make people feel good about working under his management, but when you mess up, he can really sock it to you. Plus, he goes a little bit haywire when things get chaotic. Good with planning and creating, bad with the unpredictable that can pop up in this line of work. Neil's first administrative assistant is Amanda Barr. Kind of a stickler for the rules, but she bends if it's a really good cause. She'll be working with you more than Neil, which is good because she's a lot more enduring in a crisis. Neil's second administrative assistant is Gianna Romano. She's a lady with a lot of snap and bite, but she doesn't deliberately ruin people's day and she's not the type to sabotage anyone's career. Amanda and Gianna both hate to gossip, so watch yourself in a casual conversation. Good so far?"

"So far," Meara repeated cautiously, mind whirling with the quick round of data thrown at her.

"Good," Fox went on, "Now, you're direct supervisor is Carla Newman, who is the Associate Director of Urban Planning. Carla's a nice person… patient and thoughtful. She's very organized and she gets things done early if she can. Christina Fenwick was her administrative assistant, as you know. In Christina's absence, Amanda and Gianna are splitting duties with the department's two foremost secretaries, Julia Henry and Gretchen Dillon. Both of them treat others pretty congenially, but they like to gossip – Gretchen more than Julia. Amanda has taken up the most major duties – scheduling appointments, coordinating meetings, scheduling travel, managing calendars and timesheets, and ordering office supplies. As you train up, they'll fall back into their regular duties one by one."

"When I'm completely trained," Meara interrupted before the executive could go on, already feeling the weight of all she had yet to learn, "What will all of my duties be?"

Taking in a breath, Lucius eventually sighed a little and responded, "Brace yourself. There are quite a few duties you'll practice on a pretty regular basis… Taking notes, answering phone calls, processing emails and postal mail, bookkeeping, managing physical and digital file systems, scheduling appointments, coordinating meetings and sometimes department events, mailing packages, entering data in any of the company systems, preparing proposals and reports, scheduling Carla's travel and visas, preparing digital presentations, managing Carla's calendar and schedules, and sending files where they need to go elsewhere in the company…."

After Fox let his lengthy description fade away, Meara sat blinking for a long while, trying to determine how many of those things she had any actual experience with.

"That's just what you do on a daily and weekly basis," Fox warned Meara as her eyes returned to the moment. "You'll also be maintaining monthly communication with Queen Consolidated. Wayne Enterprises and Queen Consolidated update each other on any shared financing goals, equipment acquisitions, trade shows, and general company software design ideas. None of this includes any times you have to fill in for Amanda or Gianna or one of the secretaries, it doesn't include side projects Neil or Carla ask you to take on, or even other departments needing the assistance of an administratively trained employee. And, if you're as perceptive and proactive as I think you are, sometimes you'll probably have to take the initiative and deal with a circumstance that needs doing so the company can function smoothly."

"Sounds like the hotel I worked at," Meara let out a slight huff of air. "Just a lot more involved."

"What was your position at the hotel?" Fox inquired curiously.

"I was a hotel clerk," Meara answered immediately.

Fox's eyebrows rose and he scoffed amusedly, "Then what in the world are you worried about? Really, you've already worked in an administrative capacity! It's very similar work. Sorting mail and emails, entering data, handling phone calls, computing expenses and making reports… Keeping track of room accesses is just like keeping track of conference room availability, and arranging company meetings is the same situation as arranging tours or hotel parties."

"But here at the company," Meara began to explain, breathing in her anxiety with new understanding, "I have to learn all about big business, I have to understand everything about Urban Planning, I have to know the particular softwares used at Wayne Enterprises, and I have to know the company's inner workings like clockwork."

"And you will," Lucius chuckled at her growing sense of panic. "You're not expected to know all of that the first week or even the first month! It's a learning process, Meara, and this is only your first day. You'll learn it. Give it time."

Releasing a pent up breath, Meara nodded. "It's hard to see it that way when you're in a very new arena."

"Oh, my assistant has made that very clear to me," Fox smiled. "Annette used to work as a nail technician. She said just two days ago that if she can make a change from nail tech to administration, then anyone can make it."

"That has to be a hard change to adapt to," Meara wondered, curiosity driving some of her tension away.

"I'm not entirely sure why she made the move," Fox replied, face suffused with interest. "I wasn't the one who hired Annette. I was away on a business conference when my previous assistant eloped and moved across the country. He was a little flighty, so I wasn't all that surprised he just up and left without a word. At any rate, I wasn't able to get back yet and I needed an assistant quick. Our general hiring manager took a risk with Annette because she was the only candidate who was fully honest about her lack of experience."

"You're being awfully candid with me," Meara couldn't help commenting cautiously. "Should you be telling me all of this?"

"Bruce trusts you in a big way," Lucius informed the young woman seriously. "He told me not to hold anything back with you. The more you know, the better life is for you and all concerned. When Bruce Wayne takes that kind of risk, I know it's worth taking."

Struck by the intensity of Bruce's regard for her needs and her future, Meara fell silent with an unexpected surge of gratitude and calm.

"Let's move on and get you ready for the job," Lucius ended the tangent of their conversation with a small smile on his face.

For forty minutes, Lucius explained – the second time in two weeks – much of the purpose behind the Urban Planning department, the overarching designs behind the entire Wayne company, and how Meara's assistantship fit into that grand scheme. The further Fox described everything, the more Meara startled herself by recalling much of it directly from Bruce's aide booklet or having divined it because of the billionaire himself. Every moment discussing the varied tasks of her new career emboldened Meara and allayed her concerns over what she was capable of.

Once their conversation and lecture on purpose and meaning sufficed, Meara spent time becoming familiar with every piece of general equipment she might have to use in her job. Word programs, database software, company email, copiers, printers, fax machines, and desk phones didn't take much more than a test run to understand. On the other hand, digital filing systems, new hire training, and the company intranet took a little more time to process. There were some courses to complete before she could be fully qualified to work, but considering they were based in the very programs she had just been trained to use, common sense, and basic human decency, the young woman had no concerns about failing them.

At nine fifty, Lucius personally snapped a photo of Meara for her employee badge and helped her set up her employee username and password. It was this, more than anything else, which spoke of just how different Meara's hiring process was. Granted, she knew it was important for her to work at Bruce's company for a multitude of reasons ranging from safety to cover stories, and it therefore was important to remain successfully employed there, but Meara felt like she had cheated somehow.

"Mr. Fox, you really ought to make an official introductory training period," Meara finally told Wayne Enterprises' president. "This would all be an amazing help to a new employee and it seems wrong that I get this when no one else does."

Looking up from the identification badge currently printing on his desk, Fox half-chuckled at the suggestion. "We do have this for new employees, Miss Nolan. It's been in place ever since Bruce took back Wayne Enterprises."

"Really?" Meara tilted her head inquisitively. "It's just… this all seems very customized."

"Oh, it is," the businessman nodded his agreement. "Bruce both needs and wants you to have a good start. But the only difference between your introductory training and everyone else's… is me."

Staring for a minute at the brilliant man across from her, Meara finally began to smile in good humor. "Those two little words encompass a lot more than just your presence at my training, though, don't they?"

Starting with a quiet chuckle and moving into a full-fledged laugh, Lucius eventually nodded pleasantly. "I'm not exactly a modest man, but that makes even _me_ blush… Hmm, but I guess you're right. No one else would have given you such a behind-the-scenes account of each and every person in your sphere of influence, or such a patient run down of company software and programs."

"Thank you for that," Meara nodded once in gratitude.

"Thank Bruce for letting me in on the secret," Fox corrected her amusedly, eyes catching instantly to his left. "Ah, here's your badge."

It was the plainest photo Meara had ever taken, but it truly looked like her and it was simple. Besides, her old hotel badge had looked like a mug shot. Nothing could beat that picture; of that she felt pretty certain.

"You need to wear it visibly, so you'll have to get a lanyard or the like," said Fox, handing over the ID. "It has to be on your person so you can quickly use it to enter and exit key card doors. It's also used for higher clearance areas that most employees are not able to enter. For instance, the lobby desk clerks don't need access to R-and-D. Of course, if Bruce has anything to say about it, I imagine you won't have many restrictions on where you can go."

Meara frowned a moment as she reasoned out that last statement, at last replying confusedly, "But the system would register me entering any areas that someone in my job wouldn't typically go. Eventually – if I ever had any reason to go into a normally restricted area, that is – someone would realize I don't have a legitimate reason within the bounds of my position."

A secretive smile bloomed on Lucius Fox's face, such a devious expression that Meara's brow rose with suspicion. "What is that look for?"

"Are you really underestimating the technical skills of Bruce Wayne, Timothy Drake, _and_ Barbara Gordon? Not to mention myself," the current president of Wayne Enterprises eyed the young assistant with humorous disbelief. "Trust me, Miss Nolan, we all have you covered."

Pursing her lips, Meara allowed herself to feel that same humor, "Maybe I was being a little overzealous…"

They snorted together and continued on with Meara's introduction to the company. "Well, we've been through everything I can really show you, outside of walking you around all sixty floors of the building… Any questions at this point?"

Taking a long moment to think the question over, Meara finally decided with surprise, "None that I know to ask right now."

"I'm sure Urban Planning will change that," Lucius chuckled. "Now, the last thing I need from you is signing over all the paperwork… Are you sure you want this job? We can find something else, I'm sure, if you don't feel up to it. I think you _are_ up to it, of course, but if you don't feel it, there's no need to push yourself."

"I feel a lot differently than when I first arrived," Meara confessed plainly. "Somehow, I now feel… not confident, exactly, but…"

"Ready to try?" Lucius finished thoughtfully for her.

"That's the best way I can think to say it," agreed Meara with a nod. "I _am_ ready to try."

"Glad to hear it," a familiar voice called from behind Meara. Lucius smiled at the doorway as Meara turned to face Bruce in his black suit and tie.

"Good morning again, Mr. Wayne," Fox spoke to their mutual employer first. "How was your meeting?"

"Dull," Bruce smirked lightly.

"Would you like to take over with Miss Nolan's paperwork?" Lucius knowingly replied, already half-risen from his chair.

"If you don't mind," the billionaire remarked with remarkable politeness to his company president.

"Of course. I'm sure you have plenty of niches and loopholes to discuss," Fox remarked in amusement, standing fully from his seat. "It was good to train you, Miss Nolan. I hope to work with you again."

"Thank you. I hope so, too," the young woman smiled, accepting the handshake waiting for her.

"I'll see you later, Bruce," Lucius told the billionaire with a clap on the shoulder as he passed by and left the office behind him.

"Are you really feeling ready?" Bruce asked more quietly as he stepped up beside Meara's chair with some concern in his eyes.

"I am," the brunette replied strongly. "I have no doubt that I will find ways to panic later, when everything gets thrown at me—"

Bruce chuckled deep in his chest at the explanation, cutting the young woman off until Meara added reasonably, "…but I'll make it without a breakdown. I can promise that much."

"Then I won't say anymore," Bruce nodded once, sitting down in the seat next to Meara rather than across the desk, reaching for the swath of papers for Meara's hiring. "Your paperwork is nothing special, to be honest. I do want you to be aware of a few technicalities, as well as some additional terms I put in your contract."

"What would you need to add to my contract?" Meara wondered with a startled frown.

"A clause about… leaving without consequence," the dark-haired hero responded pensively, "in case you decide this isn't the work for you."

Surprised, Meara clarified, "You gave me an easy out?"

"Not an easy out," Bruce smacked the arm of his chair irritably, leaning onto his knees with persuasive vigor. "It's something that will allow you to decide your future without being tied to me or to this company."

Meara set out to argue, but Bruce cut her off quietly, "You live with me in Gotham because you have no options right now. Working at Wayne Enterprises, gaining this level of experience... will _give_ you options. Work here for a year – or even less, if that's how things work out – and you will be able to go anywhere in the world with the skills you gain. Once I'm more certain of your safety and ours, of your ability to fit into this new world, I won't hold you here. You deserve the opportunity to go anywhere and be anything you want. This – opening the field of possibility – is one of very few things I can do to truly help you get to that point."

With his clear blue eyes so honest and confident, Bruce held Meara's amazed stare with earnest intent. Caught by an expected wave of emotion, Meara had to look away in order to control her expression.

Clearing her throat after a few minutes of attempting self-restraint, the young woman pushed herself to speak at last with a simple statement, "Thank you."

Nodding once with the barest touch of a smile threading his mouth, Bruce sat straight again and pulled Meara's paperwork to him. "All right, the first thing I want to discuss on your contract is an option we offer every secretary or assistant who hires into the company. Lucius probably already talked about the way we switch assistants between departments for meetings, conferences, etcetera?"

"Yes, he did mention that," Meara recalled from earlier than morning.

"It's optional, but highly recommended," Bruce explained, "If you would like to, for experience's sake, you can opt-in to be a floating assistant for inter-departmental needs. You'll have a solid base here in Urban Planning, but if you're free when a crisis hits another department, they'll be able to pull you for that situation. Sometimes, if you aren't involved in any major projects for your own department, even if there's not specifically an emergency, you'll be asked to take part in events just to build experience."

"I like the idea of learning about other departments," Meara considered thoughtfully. "I'll be much busier that way, of course…"

"You're not exactly the kind of person to sit still if you can help it," Bruce determined, subtle laughter tipping off the back of his throat before he reined it in.

"That's true enough," Meara smiled ruefully, crossing one leg over the other as she thought it through. "I feel good about the idea."

"You can opt-opt at any time," Bruce informed her dutifully, adding before she could speak, "and not just because you know me."

Restraining a laugh, the young woman nonetheless smiled and nodded. "That's good… I'd like to test it out, then."

"Then all you need to do is sign," the billionaire offered the thick stack of contract papers. "On… well, practically every page… Sometimes twice."

Finally letting her laughter burst forth, Meara accepted the papers with a shake of her head. "I'll be lucky if I have lunch at this rate."

Pulling his arm up for a glance at the watch on his wrist, Bruce announced, "It's ten-thirty-nine. Plenty of time before your lunch break at noon."

"Good to know when lunch is," Meara smarted, starting to sign her paperwork with Bruce helpfully pointing out her signature lines as needed.

"I'm ordering lunch in the office," Bruce added informatively. "There are two more things I need to talk about, and I want to show you something about your badge. We should be done just in time for you to start in Urban Planning at one-thirty."

"Do I already have a schedule in place?" the young woman inquired, glancing up at her new 'boss' with curious eyes.

"Based on your class schedule, I didn't have many options," Bruce shrugged. "Lunch is at noon. Monday and Tuesday you come in at five in the morning and leave at five in the evening. Wednesday through Friday, you just work the morning half, since you have classes after lunch. I decided on giving you weekends off from the daily schedule, but if there's a situation or an event on the weekend, you'll still have to come in."

"Sounds reasonable and familiar," Meara concurred with a nod.

Signing took just as long the young woman thought it might, but with her hands so used to sketching, thankfully she didn't have any cramping when she finally laid down her pen.

"Whew, that was a lot of signage," Meara exhaled in a puff, slouching with relief.

"At least it's out of the way," Bruce smirked, setting the contract paperwork to the side of Fox's desk.

"Amen," Meara muttered.

Snorting, the billionaire reached for the desk phone and input a number from memory. Meara stared momentarily, until Bruce caught the look and lifted a well-structured black brow.

As it turned out, lunch came from a French bistro four blocks away – a bistro that, if Meara's feelings were correct, never delivered to any other customer except Bruce Wayne. Deciding not to comment, Meara just appreciated the fact she now knew how to direct food deliveries, and enjoyed her lunch while it lasted. Even on her nice little salary as an assistant, Meara knew she wouldn't be able to afford eating charming French cuisine every day.

"What did you call this again?" Meara asked the billionaire, pointing to the small bowl of stew he convinced her to try.

"Bacheofe," Bruce answered, slicing a strip steak up as he hid a smirk at her curious questions. "It's a stew made with lamb, pork, beef, potatoes, and root vegetables, simmered in white wine and placed in a pot sealed with dough."

"And that?" the young woman pointed at the sandwich he had also convinced her to taste-test.

"Pan Bagnat," the billionaire explained, going on to describe it again, "It's tuna, anchovies, olives, boiled eggs, tomatoes, and red onion – dressed in olive oil and eaten on a baguette. Some variations include green beans, potatoes, or various other vegetables."

"And of course, regardless of the French term for it," Meara began, eyeing his meal with pursed lips, " _that_ , despite anything, is steak and fries."

"Strip steak with béarnaise butter, actually," Bruce countered, forced to work a good deal harder to hold in his smirk. "And these fries are made from vinegar-brined potatoes. Tangy to the taste."

Blinking as she tried to determine how much of that she would retain, Meara just shook her head. "Maybe some other time, when I'm not trying to learn an entire business, I'll takes some lessons in cooking French cuisine. Cooking it will clear up everything I don't understand at this moment."

After so many minutes holding in his good humor, Bruce at last allowed a snort to escape him. With a roll of her eyes, Meara settled into eating her sandwich and stew.

Bruce finished his meal first, sipping water while Meara polished off a slice of almond-coconut orange cake.

"I have to say, this has all been extremely delicious," the young woman offered, reaching for her cup of lemonade. "What is this called in French again?"

"Citron pressé," Bruce gave the answer in full-bodied voice. While Meara had never heard a native Frenchman speak, she couldn't help believing Bruce probably sounded just like that.

"Ready for the last items on our list?" the billionaire queried, something in his eyes telling Meara the man more than likely deduced what she had been thinking.

"Let's move on," the young woman confirmed surely, albeit a little embarrassedly.

"For this job," Bruce continued, allowing the moment to pass with nary a word of sarcasm, "you are going to have your own tablet and smartphone."

"What?" Meara responded more loudly than intended, covering her mouth as though it would take back the noise she made.

Smothering a laugh with brief coughing, Bruce pressed on quietly, "You know how to work my computers at the manor, so you have all the experience you need in operating the tablet. And the phone is actually a little less advanced than the one I originally gave you to use. And by the way, I still need a design for the cover of your new personal phone."

"I was trying in Detroit," Meara murmured awkwardly. "I just couldn't find an actual design I would use. It's harder than you might think."

"Well, try again when you get the chance," Bruce accepted that answer graciously. "I personally set up the work tech your supervisor will give you down in Urban Planning; I want you to have emergency options for contact and escape if something happens at the company while you're here. Also, I was hoping you could help me find information in a crisis, if needed. Would you be okay with that?"

"If a real _crisis_ hits," the brunette answered with some measure of long-suffering disbelief, "I think I'll be pretty flexible about what I'm 'okay' with."

Once more stifling a chuckle, the billionaire nodded acquiescently. "Last thing… your badge. As Lucius must have hinted, you're going to have access to areas anyone else in your position wouldn't have. This fits along with the crisis situation we just talked about. Here, pull out the badge for me."

Looking into her purse, Meara picked the ID from the pocket she left it in not long before and brought it up for Bruce to take. Holding the small piece of plastic, the dark-haired vigilante flipped it so the picture side faced Meara.

"This picture," Bruce declared seriously, his voice the quietest it had yet been, "is more than a static image on plastic. At the entrance to applied sciences, there is a scanner meant only for my team. Alfred, Dick, Tim, and Barbara all have a visitor's badge that can allow them access to the research division. Your picture allows you the same kind of access. This scanner is totally separate from the regular company access system and runs directly to my private server, so no one will ever know if you or one of the team gets into a restricted area."

Lucius Fox hadn't been joking when he questioned Meara's worries about restricted access.

"That's all I have for you," Bruce suddenly announced as though he had not just been murmuring the dark secrets of his double life in her ear, standing and slipping the remains of lunch off of the desk and into the trash bin, leaving only Meara's lemonade and the billionaire's water. Turning at the sound of footsteps, Meara realized why.

Walking beside Lucius Fox into the president's office was a woman who appeared to be in her thirties or forties, standing at about Meara's height with honey-blond hair tucked into a loose bun and fair green eyes offset by her suntanned skin and misty lavender skirt suit.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry I kept you waiting," Fox apologized to the CEO, faking surprise that Meara guessed they had perfected after working together so long. "I was just trying to introduce Miss Nolan to Carla."

"Oh, that's fine, Mr. Fox. I just chatted with Meara about her new position for minute," Bruce played off with the fake social smile he had also perfected after so long using it. "Dick and Barbara said she was very excited to get started."

"I am," Meara agreed with the lie easily, adding a smile as she stood from her seat. She _was_ excited now, even if she was also still very cautious.

"That's what every supervisor wants to hear," Carla Newman laughed a little, the sound as warm and rich as her speaking voice.

"Meara Nolan, Carla Newman," Lucius introduced them with a smile of his own, "Carla is the associate director for Urban Planning."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Meara," the associate director greeted congenially with a steady extension of her hand.

Accepting the proffered shake, Meara returned the sentiment, "And the same of you, Ms. Newman."

"Oh, Carla, please," the woman waved off the title. "And anyway, I'm married and I don't mind using the title."

"I'll remember that," Meara half-laughed at the remark.

"I'm going to leave you in Carla's capable hands," Lucius told Meara. "Good luck."

"Thank you," Meara nodded at the president, but her thanks extended to Bruce as well.

"I'll show you the way to Urban Planning," Carla welcomed Meara to walk with her, smiling comfortably. The other woman's heels click-clacked along the floor as they made their way down the hall, her rich voice questioning interestedly as they went, "So what brings you into the field of urban planning, Meara?"

"I've always had a fascination with architecture," the young woman answered to the broad inquiry, recalling discussions about her backstory that she, Bruce, and Alfred had engaged in when they had time. "I've been sketching since I was small and I started college in the pre-architecture program. With historical preservation as my minor, an advisor helped me find local projects to aid that goal. Bruce Wayne happened to be looking at real estate in Detroit and needed assistance to preserve the history of a nineteen-twenties property he wanted to buy. My advisor jumped on the opportunity and convinced him to give me a chance to learn and develop those skills."

"How did you come to be in Gotham?" Carla wondered with a furrowed brow.

"Wayne Manor endured some disrepair," Meara expanded the web of lies she had to enforce, amazed at her own casual efforts in making it appear true. "There were other attempts at restoration around the time I began working on the Detroit property, but Mr. Wayne appreciated the depth of my research process by comparison, so he asked me if I would take over the renovation."

"That sounds like quite an undertaking," Carla pressed, frowning more deeply as they began traveling up in the elevator, "going back and forth between Gotham and Detroit…"

Meara couldn't help noticing a wavering of doubt from her new supervisor. Time to lay it on thick, then, she acknowledged silently. "Mr. Wayne paid the expenses of travel and all the resources I needed, so I could still afford necessities. Working at the manor, I ended up talking to his two sons and a friend of theirs."

Taking a breath to refresh herself, the young woman added with all sincerity, "We really connected, the four of us. Their friend, Barbara, made me think about moving to Gotham more permanently, but obviously I couldn't do it without work to support myself. Your former assistant's decision to leave really was a miracle for me. I've been very lucky to have Mr. Wayne's help starting over."

Smiling far more genuinely, Carla's understanding expression had Meara fully convinced that the more sincere parts of her explanations truly won the day.

"I'm glad you have this opportunity, then," the associate director finished their talk as the elevator opened onto the forty-sixth floor.

From the elevator, the two women walked to the right, then took another right turn at the corner to head down a long, smartly gleaming hall floored in what appeared to be white granite. A third of the way down, a triple-wide doorway bordered by glass on either side opened into another hall, which sported solid walls, bright but comfortable lighting, and wide, frosted glass doors.

Just beyond the entrance, a long desk on each side of the walkway sat in an open cubicle-like space. On the left, the nameplate read Gretchen Dillon, accompanied by a mess of papers, pens, and folders surrounding a thirty-something, well-tanned blonde with dark streaks in her hair and big brown eyes that refocused on Meara with a ready smile of welcome in spite of the phone call she was engaged in.

Across from Gretchen, the nameplate for Julia Henry faced far less disorganization and looked as well-kempt as the tall, pale-skinned woman with light brown eyes framed by straight locks of strawberry blond hair. Julia seemed very calm in demeanor, holding herself at ease even as Meara watched a tall, black-haired woman with olive-toned skin and dark brown eyes agitatedly join her at the desk. Those dark eyes crinkled with distaste as the taller of the two pointed something out on Julia's computer screen with a jabbing finger. Both women appeared to actually be in the same general age range, somewhere in their mid thirties to mid forties, except that the more frazzled woman espoused very hard facial features. Meara wouldn't have gone as far as to say she looked haggard, but it was a close draw.

Whatever they stood at odds about, Carla took a definite interest, stopping Meara with an easy hand as she spoke to the more irritable of the two employees, "Gianna, is something wrong?"

Recognizing precisely who the irritable woman was, Meara was suddenly very unsurprised when the very assistant Lucius warned her about spit out, "This report doesn't include any of the financial data we asked for! I specifically said—"

"I can imagine," Carla cut Gianna off with a sigh, leaving the other woman to narrow her eyes, but otherwise remain quiet. "Julia, is there a good reason for that?"

From the tone of the associate director's voice, Meara had the feeling there was _always_ a good reason if Julia Henry didn't complete her projects to the expected standard.

"I'm sorry, Carla, but the financial data has been delayed for a few days," Julia responded, unflappable in the face of Gianna's audible scoff. "Jack and Coleman's numbers didn't match, so they're redoing the data. The information should be in by Thursday morning."

"All right, we just have to wait, then," Carla decided reasonably. "Right, Gianna?"

"I guess _so_ ," Gianna answered sharply, stalking off down the hallway ahead of Carla and Meara, black heels enhancing her already tall frame.

Taken a little more back, even if Fox had already given her a solid impression of the woman beforehand, Meara blinked away her shock.

"Sorry about that," Carla turned back to Meara with a shake of her head. "One thing to remember around here, Meara, is never to let Gianna talk you down. She's good at her job, but she's not as good with people."

"And _that's_ why we have Amanda," Gretchen remarked almost under her breath, but if Carla's repressed smile was any indication, there wasn't much point to being secretive about it.

"Meara, these ladies are Gretchen Dillon and Julia Henry," the honey-blond director smiled, gesturing at each woman in turn.

"Nice to meet you, Meara," Gretchen stretched out a hand, which Meara gratefully took.

"Glad you're on board," was Julia's greeting as they also shook hands across the desk.

"If anyone calls, I'm in a meeting," Carla informed the secretaries simply, guiding Meara just past the secretaries' large cubicle spaces and into a doorway on the left. As they passed the open door, Meara took note of Carla's name and position stamped on it in contemporary white lettering.

"This my office," the woman in question explained, throwing out her arms to encompass the broad space filled with modern furniture and outlined by a wall of floor-ceiling windows behind the desk. "Don't hesitate to come in with questions, even if it's after ten years working here."

Meara chuckled with her supervisor and took the tan cushioned seat she was offered while Carla settled behind the wide white desk and pulled up a box from the right side.

"First thing to go over," Carla spoke up again, gesturing at the box, "is your work gear. You have your badge already, do you need a lanyard or an armband?"

"Lanyards are much easier for me," Meara determined.

"Agreed," the green-eyed director nodded, pulling a long stretch of black satin material up from the box. "That being said, I'm going to give you a lanyard to use. It's very comfortable and it's breakaway, so if it gets caught on something, you can just rip it off and keep yourself safe."

"Thank you," Meara accepted, pulling her ID badge out of her pocket to slip it in the plastic casing.

"Your other equipment is a lot more complex," Carla clued the young woman in with a lift of her eyebrows. "Every assistant uses a tablet and a work phone here. This… is your tablet. You can use it for an infinite number of work activities,. There are word programs, data software, blueprint software, and a host of other programs. This… is your smartphone. The numbers you need are already put in the system. Both items can go home with you. That's part of the point, it allows you to work outside of the building if you choose. But you do need to be cautious. We don't want you to give out sensitive information to a competitor like Stellmoor International, for instance."

Meara started inconspicuously at the familiar company name, curious how that would play into the world she now lived in – particularly compared to its fictional incarnations. Letting the feeling go for the present, Meara reached for the tablet and phone from each of Carla's hands. Taking both black tech pieces gingerly in her grasp as they were handed off, Meara shrunk a little in embarrassment when Carla laughed at her tentative behavior.

"It's okay, they _can_ be repaired," the blonde told her amusedly. "I mean, don't _try_ to break them, of course."

Meara found her shoulders relaxing again at the attempted humor.

"Now, I also want you to do a little…" Carla tried to find the word she wanted, "…let's call it a warm up activity. What I do with new employees, regardless of age or experience level, is I have them go on a sort of scavenger hunt. It helps you get accustomed to the work area and your general duties."

"That seems like a good starter activity," Meara smiled in surprise, readjusting her grip on the tablet and cell phone she'd be given.

"If you can't enjoy your work, what's the point?" the director shrugged lightly. "Granted, work won't be nearly as fun as a scavenger hunt, but…"

Tilting her head in resignation, Carla left her words to trail off. "I'll introduce you to Neil, Amanda, and Gianna, then you can get started on your hunt. Both your phone and your tablet will be a part of the activity, by the way, so let's keep those close."

Nodding her understanding, Meara stood when Carla did, following her supervisor's gesturing hand out into the hall again.

As they walked across the hall and into a small space that smelled strongly of coffee, Carla explained, "This is our small break area. I don't think there's a single kind of coffee we don't carry in here. There are small snack packets in the cabinets opposite the coffee machines – not as much variety as the coffee, but it's not bad. Sometimes, if the day has been wild and you can take moment to yourself, those snacks seem fairly amazing."

Amused by the notion of snacks tasting better after a stressful day has paused, Meara nonetheless wondered cautiously, "How much will I be trained on, compared to tasks I'll have to learn straight on the job? For example, how much does the scavenger hunt cover?"

"Your scavenger hunt will be very introductory," Carla replied patiently. "Anything more advanced will be learned as you go along and face new projects. You'll be trained day by day on every one of your tasks. The only thing we train you for with sample materials, rather than on an actual project, is the blueprint program and the 3-D structural design software, so definitely don't worry about that."

Worrying a little in spite of her general affability with design technology and software, Meara released a small breath to ease up her tense posture and followed Carla out into the hallway again, this time heading through the door right beside the break room.

"As you can see, this is the file and supply room," the older of the two explained further, sweeping through the large room full of office supplies and various sizes of file cabinets like a breeze. "We only hold physical files from cases ongoing in the last year. All the other files are on the digital system, although we do have physical copies down that main hallway. It's a _much_ larger file room and most people don't bother unless the file can't fit on a single screen. The supplies here fulfill all needs in our area, except for those larger projects that are completed in the common workspace, also down the main hallway."

They moved out of the supply room then, and Carla directed Meara to walk ahead of her, directly opposite the supply room and into another office space. Against the left wall stood a desk similar to Carla's, with the exact same tan chairs in front. The entire setup lay outlined by glorious floor-to-ceiling windows at the back, opposite the door. On the right wall were multiple bulletin boards, a large yearly calendar, and two normal monthly calendars hanging on either side.

Glancing at the door on the way in, as she had in the associate director's workspace, Meara inhaled quietly at the sight of her name and position printed on the frosted glass door.

"This is your office," Carla told the young woman matter-of-factly. "I included it on your starter activities, so you can become more familiar with using it as your base. The furniture in here was Christina's personal preference. You'll get some say in the color and style of the guest chairs, your office chair, and the desk. The options are in the booklet on your desk; Christina left it for you to look over."

Overall, the office looked very light and open, something Meara appreciated. However, her choices in configuration, styles, and colors depended greatly upon how her work flowed and what she needed from the space. Leaving the booklet on the desk, Meara instead set her tablet and phone on the clean surface to have her hands free.

"Let's keep moving," Carla declared with an easy gesture back towards the hallway.

On the other side of Meara's right office wall, Carla showcased a bright, sunny room with six commercial copiers, several glass work tables, and multiple black leather-padded chairs.

"The copy room is pretty self-explanatory," the honey-blond woman shrugged gently.

Their next stop was the office directly across from the copy room, but as the room was empty, they moved down to the next and last door on the right side of the hall. This, too, remained empty, leaving the two women sharing a small laugh at their string of luckless searches as they walked across to the last office on the left.

Inside the room, three people sat or stood around a bold walnut desk, talking in low tones. Meara recognized tall, olive-skinned Gianna with her shining black hair wrapped up in a spider clip. Beside her sat a far less frazzled-looking woman with rich dark skin, sparkling dark eyes, and dense ebony curls close to her head. Where Gianna's maroon skirt suit looked too hard-pressed to be lived in comfortably, the shorter woman's button-down peach blouse and beige skirt settled crisply yet easily on her frame.

"Neil, sorry to interrupt," Carla spoke up, drawing Meara's attention to the third person in the room. The black-suited man's thick ebony hair and enormous brown eyes stood out against his pale skin like black paint on a white canvas. Even the small amount of stubble above his lip and along his jawline stood out very clearly. Contradictory to the seeming stark contrast of features, Neil Davis boasted a rather pleasant face against his royal blue dress shirt.

"Nothing to worry about, Carla," Neil responded with a congenial smile, waving them into the room. "Come in. This must be your new assistant?"

"Yes, this is Meara Nolan," Carla introduced the young woman as they stepped further inside, leading three sets of eyes to stare at Meara where she nervously stood waiting. "Meara, please meet Neil Davis, Gianna Romano, and Amana Barr."

"Pleased to have you here, Meara," Neil offered with another simple smile, offering a hand to shake.

"Glad to be here," the brunette agreed with a matching smile all new acquaintances employed.

With a pleasant, albeit businesslike smile, Amanda mimicked her supervisor's gesture. "I look forward to working together."

It took a certain kind of look from Neil for Gianna to engage in the conversation.

"Pleasure," the tall assistant offered shortly, clearly not invested in Meara's addition to their department.

A collective breath seemed to escape Neil, Carla, and Amanda as the Italian woman settled into silence, leaving Meara wondering what precisely they originally expected Gianna to say.

"I won't keep you any longer," Carla told the assembled trio promptly. "I need to get Meara started on learning the department."

"Of course," Neil agreed immediately, nodding his head once.

"Don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it," Amanda informed Meara before they walked out, something the youngest of the group appreciated.

"Thank you," she replied simply, following Carla back out into the hall and down to their adjoining offices.

"All right," Carla started up, heading to her desk to grab a thick booklet and return to Meara's side with it. "This is your activity packet. Most of it is pictures, so don't let the size fool you. Go ahead and have a seat in your office and read through this, then head out and get started. Just bring back the packet and anything you make in the process before five o'clock."

"I'll do that," Meara nodded in comprehension of her task, moving through her new office door to settle at the white desk off on the left of the room and open up her activity packet.

Despite the discomfort of Gianna Romano's presence and attitude, Meara mostly felt comfortably welcomed to the Urban Planning department. Carla certainly helped, but then Lucius had promised Meara as much during their earlier talk.

Settled into something of a timeline for the rest of her shift, Meara relaxed minutely where she sat and allowed herself to feel real success for the first time that day.

* * *


	18. Chapter 17: Relieved

Disclaimer: I do not own _Justice League_ or _The Dark Knight Trilogy_ , which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.

A/N: It’s another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode _The Terror Beyond_ , and quite some time before the next episode _Secret Society_. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.

DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the " _mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'_ …" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.

**Chapter Numbering:**  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Prologues/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

**Notes:  
** I'm sorry everyone had to wait so long for an update, but real life was crazy and I was deeply involved in completing one of my other stories. I can't promise when the next chapter will come out, since it's part of a big event that will be happening soon and I will need to get it all worked out. But I am working on it, I promise. I've said this in many other stories, but I never, ever give up on tale. Doesn't matter what happens. Enjoy!

> **Chapter 17: Relieved**

When Meara finally pulled into the fifth garage door of the carriage house at Wayne Manor, Bruce's sons waited inside for her. Dick leaned on the Lexus a good deal more patiently than his brother; the teen moved from one foot to the other with an excess of energy.

"How was it?" Dick inquired as the brunette closed her door, only now cluing Meara in to how much energy he also kept pent up all day.

Meara didn't bother making them wait for the answer, settling for a simple statement, "Nerve-wracking, but generally successful."

"Told you!" Dick smacked his hands together excitedly, lifting himself from the hood of his car.

Sighing in easy defeat, Meara admitted, "Yes, you did."

"Started using your tablet, yet?" Tim wanted to know, practically bouncing on his toes.

Rolling stormy eyes, Meara tugged her purse higher on one shoulder and led the two overactive Robins out of the carriage house and back inside to the manor proper. "What's exciting about that to you? You have state of the art technology here. Nothing at work could possibly be more exciting than that."

Meara turned back in time to watch the thirteen-year-old shrug haplessly.

"That's true, I guess," Tim acknowledged.

Dick snorted with a little grin at his adoptive brother's technology geek-out, leaning back with amazing reflexes just in time to avoid a hard swipe from the teen ahead of him.

Tim waited only until they reached the manor door to swipe out again, leading Dick to take a quick step back.

Looking back on the teenager – who frowned quite spectacularly at his lack of success – Meara offered a hard eye that seemed to work well enough on him.

Until they passed into the kitchen, of course.

With Alfred's very comforting dinner wafting through the air and the warmth of the kitchen imbuing them all with a comfort Meara hadn't been sure she'd feel that day, Tim tried to swipe at Dick again without Meara seeing – Dick once more leaning deftly out of the way. Exhaling with a roll of her eyes at the younger of Bruce's sons, Meara took a breath to contain her mutual amusement and exasperation and continued walking along, the two brothers still following her comfortable tread into the dining room.

Three more times Tim attempted to hit Dick before they even reached the foyer and Meara decided enough was enough, no matter how amusing she found the display between brothers. If those two continued, something would get broken – probably a nose. The young woman doubted Bruce or Alfred would be too thrilled to deal with a broken nose – or the tantrum over not going on patrol until the nose healed. Rigorous as Batman's standards were, Meara didn't believe for a second he'd let his sons go out and fight crime with such an injury.

"Tim!" Meara called the younger of the two firmly, recalling with a surprising resilience and fondness all the times Gilroy had endured the same tone for trying to bump her into a wall or tug on her hair.

Caught looking guilty over his behavior, Tim half-smiled in a very uncomfortable manner and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. Taking no chances, Meara grabbed the dark-haired boy's collar and pushed him ahead of her into the foyer.

"Keep walking, Timmy boy," Dick teased his brother. Meara gave him the precise look she'd given Tim moments before.

Unfortunately, the same hard-eyed expression didn't have nearly the same effect on Dick Grayson as it did on Timothy Drake.

"I take it work went well today," a very droll Bruce Wayne caught their attention from the doorway of the lounge.

Looking over at the billionaire in whirl, Meara decided his dry expression was intended for Dick and Tim. Letting it go, the young woman shrugged neatly. "What can I say? I take my worrying very seriously."

"I'm glad to know it wasn't needed," was Bruce's wry answer, the dark-haired vigilante turning back towards the lounge.

"And of course, you're not surprised," Meara remarked blandly.

"Certainly not," Bruce asserted plainly. "I knew you could manage it perfectly fine."

"Let's hope that lasts throughout my career, rather than just the first day," the young woman cautioned.

"Another bridge for another day," the businessman resolved firmly.

Indeed, when they settled down to dinner, the topic of Meara's future days with Wayne Enterprises failed to come up in conversation even once. Meara highly suspected that was an incredibly intentional move by her host and his family, but let it go.

Barbara failed to join them that evening, something Meara couldn't help noticing as well.

"Barbara is fine," Bruce understood immediately what Meara nearly asked about their redheaded teammate. "Jim Gordon was stubborn about not taking it easy. His daughter is the only one who can convince him to settle down for a time."

Staring momentarily at her host's accurate assumption of her worries, Meara finally just shook her head and let Bruce be Bruce.

Immediately after dinner, Meara became completely monopolized by Tim, who led her – and her tablet, incidentally – upstairs and into one of the only two rooms she hadn't toured in the manor.

What one might expect in an average teenage boy's room inside a mansion, Tim Drake's bedroom seemed nothing like it. As in the rest of the family wing, Tim lived in a dark space; it was outfitted with heavy navy walls and ages upon ages of very deeply colored wood. The greatest difference in Tim's room definitely proved to be the extensive technical tools, materials, and resources spread across multiple surfaces in a neat, orderly arrangement Meara couldn't believe came from a thirteen-year-old.

Then again, this _was_ Timothy Drake in the flesh.

Posters and flyers from an enormous variety of local, regional, and national technological and scientific events and competitions flooded the wall which Tim's walnut desk stood against.

"What is it?" the youngest Wayne heir inquired curiously, watching Meara where she stood gazing about her surroundings.

"It's just that this is all so unlike a typical thirteen-year-old…" Meara answered a bit distantly, eyeing two matching gray armchairs with plenty of squash in the cushions. "And yet it's perfectly like you, Tim Drake."

"Good to know," the teen smiled slightly, gesturing at the cushy chairs. "I thought we could work on your tablet. To help you get to know it better."

"And help you have another geek moment," Meara teased, repressing a grin as Tim scowled over at her.

"You know, I could leave you out in the cold," Tim threatened vaguely.

Meara allowed her grin to break through at the weak warning. "Sure you could. Of course, you'd also be leaving my tablet in the cold, too, so…"

Scrunching his face in discontent, Tim huffed and took a seat himself. "Fine. Be awful like that… Just bring the tablet with you."

Emitting a loud, full laugh at the boy's reluctant addition, Meara shook her head. "Actually, I want to change first. I'll be right back, I swear."

"Uh, Meara…" Tim started to say as Meara turned towards the door, but she cut him off with an even larger grin.

"Yes, Tim, I'll bring this tablet back with me."

Flushing but barely in silent embarrassment, Tim cleared his throat and scratched his neck as he had in the dining room. Snorting, Meara quickly returned to her room and changed out of her tall shoes and work clothes with gladness. Aiming for simple comfort, Meara slipped into a pair of black leggings, a gray winnowed hem pullover, and socks, then left for Tim's room again.

"That was fast," the intellectual boy commented with surprise.

"When I say I'll be quick, I actually mean it," Meara remarked glibly, coming to sit in the arm chair beside Tim – tablet in hand. "Here, you may as well take this."

Sharing a grin, the two of them settled in more casually, Meara pulling her legs up beneath her.

"Bruce said we all need to help you get used to the equipment," Tim commented as he turned on the tablet and let it start up, "so I thought we could start with this. Kill two birds."

"Sounds reasonable," Meara nodded understandingly. "Where are we starting?"

"Just using the internet," he replied, the ghost of a frown crossing his face as he looked at the tablet screen.

"What is it?" Meara inquired worriedly.

"Here, you can log in," Tim shrugged and handed over the technology.

"I 'can' log in?" Meara couldn't help wondering with surprise.

"Well, I was just going to hack it, but you're right here," the young teen answered without a shred of concern in his voice.

With a roll of stormy eyes, Meara accepted the tablet back and logged on within moments. "Why you would have to hack it, when it took mere seconds to sign in, is beyond me."

"Habit, I guess," Tim shrugged again, leaving Meara to exhale in some amusement as the youth went on, "You know how to pull up the browser?"

"Thanks to Bruce," the brunette explained. "He was going to have you and Dick show me the programs while I learned the technicalities from him, but we had extra time in Detroit, so he just got it done."

"Figures," Tim rolled his blue eyes. "Oh well, practice won't hurt, right?"

"No, it definitely won't," Meara agreed with a slightly emphatic nod.

'Practice' didn't take nearly as long as Meara expected. After accessing all the most important features of the internet, Tim got onto the subject of music.

"What style of music do you like?" Meara asked the younger Robin interestedly, leaning forward on her hand while the dark-haired boy in question searched for videos.

"I'm mixed," Tim responded distractedly. "I like rock the best, though, probably. Along the lines of um… the baseline or top trick."

"What in the world does that mean?" Meara frowned in utter confusion.

Glancing back up in surprise, Tim stared a minute before he started and realized rapidly, "Oh, totally different world. Sorry about that. Those are two groups I listen to. 'The Baseline' is a popular rock pop combination. 'Top Trick' is a little more of grunge. Here, I'll bring them up for you to listen to."

Within a second, Tim had a modern rock song playing; the music similar to Matchbox Twenty. The second group Tim played certainly matched the grunge style, and wasn't much in line with Meara's tastes.

"Who is this?" asked Meara of the third song Tim played, finding a good rhythm in the heavy rock music and tapping her foot against the arm of the chair in matching tempo.

Looking up again, Tim answered, "Young Moguls. They're a little older group than I grew up with. Dick remembers them really well, though."

"I forgot about music and movies," Meara sighed irritably. "There are probably a lot of cultural differences I don't know about. Well… wait, though… Bruce knows about The Lord of the Rings. And Barbara confirmed that you have Shakespeare, as well as multiple science-fiction authors I know of. That's actually a lot of similarity between our worlds. Still, I forgot to even examine the culture this way."

"I don't think we ever considered that, either," Tim frowned. "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't realize just how much you have to learn. It's not just the city or the job. It's musicians, actors, famous artists, politics, world history… Heck, probably things like automakers, appliance companies, shipping—"

"Tim!" Meara cut the boy off instantly, drawing his startled gaze to her tight stormy eyes as she continued a little more calmly, "Can you please _not_ make me panic?"

"Sorry," Tim apologized instantly. "Look, with pop culture, you can ask Dick and Barbara. They're right at your age. Plus, you can search for all this information. That's what Dick and I can do for your tech tutoring. You can learn to use the programs and learn about history and cultural information at the same time. How does that sound?"

"Very helpful," Meara exhaled much more comfortably. "Thank you, Tim."

"No problem," the teen replied with a small smile, offering up the tablet. "Just type in a style of music you like or a type of movie and see what you come up with. That's a start."

As Meara found out, searching for music and movies was quite an enormous start. Barely had Tim helped the young woman examine the most popular actors and music artists of the time – many of whom Meara actually knew – when Alfred stepped through Tim's doorway.

"Master Tim, Miss Meara," the butler greeted each bent head with a curious expression. "Master Bruce would like to have a word."

"But Alfred, we were just getting going," Tim whined slightly.

"We'll be right down, Alfred," Meara assured the elder man with a roll of her eyes, giving Tim the same look from earlier in the dining room. Sufficiently quelled, the teen Robin rolled his eyes as well and stood with Meara to head downstairs.

Alfred led them to the library rather than the lounge, where Dick and Bruce waited in calm repose. Seated on a chair he had pulled up to the side of the Bruce's desk, Dick rifled through a business textbook with pursed lips and a disinterested expression. Meara smiled over the look; Dick just wasn't meant to be a businessman. How she could know so intrinsically, Meara had no idea, but it struck her as the truest knowledge in the world.

Bruce, on the other hand, studied a spread of papers at his desk with intense focus reminiscent of his alter ego. Wondering just what they were going to discuss, Meara took a seat on the chair in front of the desk with Tim following her lead. On an off-glance, the young woman realized her erstwhile tutor still carried the tablet in his hand. Meara huffed in amusement before she could stop herself.

Catching the amused gaze she cast in his direction, Tim grinned sheepishly.

"Meara, Tim," Bruce greeted them at last, setting down a sheaf of papers as Alfred came to stand behind their chairs and Dick set down his textbook. Not bothering with a lead-in, Bruce came straight to the point, "Selina finally hit gold on the theft ring tonight."

"Something new happened?" Meara wondered immediately, interest peaking.

"Unfortunately," was Bruce's grim answer.

"They killed someone else," Tim automatically concluded, features losing any humor they might have housed moments before.

"Yes," Bruce replied simply. "Luckily for us, it was someone central to the operation. Selina said it was a power struggle of some kind."

"Who were the earlier victims, then?" Meara asked with a frown. "Members of the operation who chose the wrong side?"

"They were everyday citizens threatened into paying protection money," Alfred answered for Bruce, features darker than usual. "Miss Kyle gained access to their files and sent over the data."

"Both men tried to gain the advantage by ruining each other's finances," Bruce continued more calmly than his butler.

"So they murdered each other's money pool," Dick completed the summary with a disgusted twist of his mouth.

"And you're going after the leader tonight," Meara assumed gravely, arms folded across her chest in disdain.

"We are," Bruce assured her, a dangerous glint in his ice blue eyes.

"Then get going!" Meara exclaimed suddenly, startled by her own intensity. "Why are we sitting here talking?"

"Alfred will be on comms tonight, and I wanted you to be aware of everything. At any rate, there's no rush," Bruce remarked with an amused brow lifted high on his forehead, adding onto his statement before Meara could press the issue, "Now that he's eliminated the interloper, it appears the leader is a little complacent. Besides, I'm waiting on Selina and Barbara to call in their position. They're setting the perimeter for us to slip past the sentries on our way in. We'll need full forces, though, so they need time to complete their task before we rush in."

"Then I should also be aware someone might not be coming back fully in tact?" Meara couldn't help herself from commenting, a sense of panic growing in her chest.

"Unlikely," Bruce negated the brunette's fear with a shake of his head.

Not entirely reassured by the brief reply, Meara did not release the frown on her face, arms once crossed now clenched together in anticipation.

Sighing as a quartet, all four of Meara's companions failed to find words for the kind of anxiety they knew their newest resident could embrace. Tim took a moment to hand off the tablet to the brunette while she tried to ignore their exasperation. Meara tried to calm her worries, but based on prior experience, she knew there would be no calm unless or until all five vigilantes returned mostly unscathed from their mission.

Nothing more could be said when Bruce's phone rang. Answering the cell with a flick of his finger, the billionaire answered, "Selina."

After a minute of listening to the cat burglar, Bruce ended the call with clipped words, "On our way."

Turning to those assembled, Bruce didn't waste any breath, "Let's go."

The Wayne men all stood and made their way to the door, and Tim tugged Meara along when she seemed too stiff to make herself walk. Stopping at the grandfather clock as the team headed down to the cave, Meara couldn't decide if she wanted to follow or not, torn between silent waiting and hearing events unfold.

"Best continue your exploration of pop culture and history, Miss Meara," Alfred attempted to assure the young woman when he realized her trouble, but his suggestion seemed very flat. "The way your nerves are affecting you, I don't think you'll want to hear the moment someone gets hurt. It's not a certainty, but it's possible."

This logic, by contrast, made a good deal more sense to Meara. Exhaling anxiously, the young woman agreed, "All right, Alfred."

"I'll call your phone to let you know the outcome," the butler promised reasonably, not offering mindless platitudes he couldn't guarantee. For that, Meara was grateful.

"I'll try not to panic," Meara offered awkwardly, absolutely positive it was an impossible task.

Chuckling with adverse humor, Alfred nodded and wordlessly followed his surrogate family down to the cave.

On silent gears and hinges the grandfather clock slid closed, meshing seamlessly against the wall again and leaving Meara alone on the palatial landing, only her work tablet in hand. Recalling those waiting hours in Detroit when Batman investigated the Perkins murder, the brunette closed her eyes only a moment and sighed deep in her chest. There was, once again, nothing for her situation except to wait it out. Very slowly, Meara traveled back up to the Aerius to immerse her mind in menial tasks as she had more than a week earlier.

Time ticked by in that airy room, a variety of music roaring in Meara's ears – from the great ages of classical through jazz, country, doo-wop, rock and roll, and all the way to present popular tunes. The biggest differences in artists and groups were the level of popularity, the names of various songs they produced, and the fate of the artists themselves. Johnny Cash, for instance, never produced the song _Daddy Sang Bass_. John Lennon was never murdered in his home. Brenda Lee was a near-nobody compared to her skyrocketed fame in Meara's world. The changes seemed strange, but having so many similarities eased the young woman's mind a little.

In the meantime, the brunette did her best to inundate her mind and took notes on the timeline of the world, glancing over major dynamics throughout time. Much of history carried the same eras, civilizations, and leaders, another amazing comfort to embrace. According to the Justice League's records, Meara expected many changes did exist. However, most would be changes everyone would be confused with, rather than just her.

Worldwide sketches interspersed Meara's contradictorily tidy and haphazard notes; the great Egyptian pyramids, snowy Russia, sea turtles in the Galapagos, cherry blossoms in Japan, colonial America… Moving through the twentieth century, Meara narrowed her sketching themes, from early airplane designs and smoky speakeasies to colorful sockhops and vintage cars.

Brassy ringing interrupted notes on the Korean War, startling Meara into making a bold, sharp line across the sentence she'd begun.

Tossing down her pen, Meara immediately answered, "Hello?"

"All is well," Alfred wasted no time explaining, good humor blended with relief in his voice. "Master Dick has a slightly jarred shoulder and Miss Kyle endured a nicked calf, but nothing that won't heal rapidly."

"Oh, thank God," Meara exhaled in a whoosh of air, slumping in on herself with relief.

"You sound wide awake," the butler chided the young woman. "Haven't you even tried to sleep?"

"Sleep?" Meara repeated in surprise, glancing at the clock for the first time in an age. It took a moment for her to register the time she stared at, but when it did, she gasped in shock. "One-thirty!"

"Yes, one-thirty indeed," Alfred scolded lightly. "Hurry and get a couple of hours sleep before you have to get up for work."

"I was so absorbed in what I was doing, I just forgot," Meara explained weakly.

"Hurry up and tuck yourself in," Alfred insisted.

"But… the others…" Meara trailed off uncertainly.

"Are perfectly all right," Alfred cut in firmly. "Circumstances are the same as every night you've slept while patrol takes place. Now, I'll throw together some overnight oats for you to take in the morning. Good night, Miss Meara."

"Good night, Alfred," Meara replied quietly and ended the call, gathering all of her materials and quickly stacking them on the dresser. Her clothes felt comfortable enough, so the young woman shrugged and only pulled her hair loose before slipping under the covers without changing.

Four o'clock came far too soon for Meara. Two and a half hours of sleep, while familiar, did not allow her the best start to the day. Groaning as she reluctantly rose from her cocoon of blankets, Meara forced herself to get ready for the day.

Rushed as she was, Meara had no earthly idea what to wear for her position. She had forgotten to ask Bruce's opinion the night before, unfortunately, leaving her to search out something very similar to the white blouse and navy pants of the previous day. An ivory blouse and charcoal – nearly black – pants fit the bill almost to a tee, matched with a cognac belt and black woven jacket. Shoes became even more problematic until Meara took a breath and actually looked at each pair. Close to the right edge of the closet, there was a cognac pair that matched her belt well enough. Not waiting any longer, Meara slipped into the lace-free oxfords with a sense of relief and pulled her hair into the same low ponytail.

As promised, Alfred had a mason jar of overnight oats waiting in the refrigerator, a combination of the traditional base mixture, sliced banana, and fresh raspberries. Sighing gratefully for the older man's care and thoughtfulness, Meara grabbed the container and its adjoining spoon to place it in her purse, then hurried out to her car.

Wayne Enterprises' parking ramp seemed strange now that Meara wasn't parked on the top level, but Lucius had made it clear exactly what level of the concrete structure she now had 'official' clearance to park in.

The hallway between parking ramp and elevator remained a mirror image of the one a few levels above it, making it easy for Meara to retrace the path she and Carla Newman had taken to the Urban Planning department the previous day. The young woman stepped through the open entry of the department with fifteen minutes to spare.

Gretchen and Julia both smiled pleasantly when Meara passed their desks, Julia calling out as the brunette passed, "Carla wants to see you at five o'clock."

"All right," Meara nodded at the secretary in thanks and walked more quickly to her new office to drop her coat and purse on the desk. Given a few minutes until she met with Carla, Meara pulled out her breakfast and rapidly polished it off. At precisely four fifty-nine, Meara knocked on Carla's closed door several feet down the hall.

After a pause, the frosted glass panel opened to reveal Carla in a white blazer and black dress, looking a little unhappy, but she smiled welcomingly to her new assistant and waved the young woman inside. "Good morning, Meara. Come on in."

Gianna and Neil both sat in the guest chairs before Carla's desk, the former appearing incredibly sour in her brown skirt suit and heels. Neil's face espoused all the earmarks of exasperation and frustration, but the gray-suited man seemed to have complete control of whatever the situation was.

"Meara," Carla began with a slight sigh of resignation, "while you're still learning the ropes, Neil would like you to shadow Gianna through her duties."

Sparing another glance for the Italian assistant, who clearly took as little joy in the circumstances as Meara did, the brunette decided she was in for a lot of difficulty. Yet there was little else she could do. Even Carla seemed tied by what Neil wanted.

"Gianna has excellent experience," Neil commented, tone all businesslike. "You'll learn a lot from her, Meara."

Something in the pale man's expression informed Meara the choice of trainer was entirely deliberate. Either Neil wanted to test Meara's teamwork skills or he simply wanted to see how long she lasted under Gianna's low attitude.

"I'll be sure to pay close attention," was all Meara told her three companions, expression carefully neutral.

"Wonderful," Neil exclaimed with a burst of smile Meara found less than genuine under the circumstances. Standing, the director nodded at each woman in turn before leaving.

Gianna wasted no time standing as well, stalking out of the room without a word or a look. Carla sighed frustratedly, but failed to remark on the Italian woman's behavior, instead walking around to take her seat. With a silent gesture, the associate director asked Meara to sit as well.

Joining her supervisor, the brunette wondered how her day would unfold now.

"That wasn't what I wanted you to do this morning," Carla finally admitted bluntly, hands intertwined on the desktop. "I guess you're under Gianna's keen eye now."

If Meara's expression looked as hesitant as it felt, she couldn't blame Carla for quietly laughing at her.

Regardless, Meara kept her outlook as positive as she could for the morning, somehow hoping Gianna would turn out less horrible than she appeared. As Lucius had said, Neil's second assistant wasn't the type to sabotage other people's careers. That thought kept a truly gloomy expression off Meara's face as she headed down to Gianna Romano's office beside the file room, tablet and smartphone in hand.

The woman in question sat behind her desk looking just as sour as she had in Carla's office, a deep furrow in her brow not encouraging in the least. Failing to look up at her new shadow, Gianna sniffed disdainfully, a slight hint of an accent showing through as she spoke, "You're reorganizing files. A through D. Hopefully that's not confusing?"

The badly veiled undercurrent of dark sarcasm raised Meara's hackles faster than anything. Whatever disturbed Gianna's life, she had no reason to take it out on a perfect stranger.

"Considering I have yet to even look at the files, yes it is," Meara frowned as she replied more bluntly than she probably should have. "Would you be so kind as to explain where 'A through D' might be found?"

The two of them shared a mutual look of hostility, neither apparently willing to back down. Eventually, Gianna narrowed dark orbs and stood sharply from her seat, walking out of her office with no explanation. Rolling stormy eyes, Meara followed with a feeling Gianna didn't often explain things for anyone.

In the file room as expected, Gianna fairly ripped open a file cabinet on the left wall, nearest the door.

"A through D," the black-haired assistant pointed out curtly, gesturing to the topmost drawer as though it pained her to do so. "They're a mess."

The Italian woman's explanations left much to be desired in the way of clarification, leading Meara to exhale her frustration quietly.

"What part of the information are they organized under?" the young woman queried with forced patience at the unnecessary hostility. "Are there any items that need to be filed a certain way?"

"No," was all Gianna told her, leaving the drawer open and stalking right back out the door.

Thoroughly exasperated, Meara listened as those tall heels disappeared into the next room and went silent, chair squeaking as Gianna apparently sat in her seat again.

Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, Meara tried to let her anxiety and dislike pass into the atmosphere, but her hands remained tight and uncomfortable.

In hindsight, Meara supposed she was expecting a little too much after such a good first day on the job, especially after the rough night that followed it. Yet it didn't seem so outrageous to hope one more thing in her new world could – perhaps – not be as bad as she feared it to be.

There she stood corrected.

Training with Gianna Romano stood out as one work experience Meara Nolan had no wish to repeat.

Left with a file system she had yet to use, the brunette pursed her lips and considered the options. On the one hand, she could continue pestering someone who obviously wanted to be left alone. Based on Gianna's increasingly obnoxious behavior, Meara kept very little stock in that option. On the other hand, there were at least four people in the office who would be willing to help and who used the file system as much as Gianna did.

Nodding once decisively, Meara closed the file drawer far more carefully than her co-worker and headed down to Carla's office. The door stood ajar, but both directors' voices came through loud and clear; Meara didn't want to interrupt.

Julia and Gretchen both remained at their desks, each absorbed in typing away on their computers, but Julia noticed Meara's hesitant presence with remarkably keen peripheral vision. A knowing expression crossed the secretary's face and she rolled her eyes subtly as she quietly assumed, "Did Gianna leave you in the file room?"

"How did you ever guess?" Meara sighed softly, shoulders relaxing.

"She did the same thing to Carla's last three assistants," Gretchen added with an equally gentle tone, making sure not to be heard by the two supervisors in the adjoining office. "Thankfully Christina learned how to work past the problem."

"What did she do about it?" Meara wondered haplessly.

"Asked us for help, of course," Gretchen smiled more naturally as she rose from her chair. "Come on, I'll show you how the files are arranged."

Fully relaxing now that she had a plan, Meara allowed the heavily-highlighted brunette to lead the way back into the file room. Despite Gretchen and Julia's reputations for gossip, Meara couldn't stop herself from commenting, "So Gianna is allowed to snap unnecessarily at people without consequence?"

With a slightly awkward inhale, Gretchen explain uncomfortably, "Mostly that's how it goes. I guess Neil doesn't care as long as she does her work."

Dissatisfied with so unreasonable an excuse, Meara pursed her lips, but said nothing while her companion started to discuss the file system.

Explaining how the projects and paperwork were organized in the physical files took only a little time, so Gretchen risked spending more time showing Meara the remarkably easy digital system as well. Meara was very glad she had asked instead of stubbornly finding her own way; Gretchen left the younger woman in the file room with a good head start and a pleasant sense of relief that her lunch would come sooner than she imagined.

Before lunchtime could approach, however, Meara completed her reorganization of the files labeled A through D. Reluctantly she made her way back to the woman who didn't actually want to teach her anything. Gianna remained seated at her desk, typing something into the computer with furious fingers that seemed to be more than busy – those hands looked downright angry.

"You can't be finished," was the only thing the older of the two said, eyes glued rigidly to her screen.

"Yet here I am," Meara countered simply.

Any more words and she might not keep her temper in check, the young woman admitted to herself.

"Then go on to the next drawer," Gianna snapped, fingers stopped and fierce eyes directed right at Meara. "And the next, and the next. Clear?"

"As a flawless diamond," Meara spoke in a low breath, willing back her agitation and turning on a sharp heel to march back to the file room and continue her work.

By the time lunch truly came around, Meara had organized the entirety of the physical files, a task so reminiscent of her duties as hotel clerk she almost laughed at her own fears of failure. As Meara looked over each file with more focus, and realized their architectural details, she soon faced no troubles recognizing what papers went with which projects.

The projects within varied widely in age and type, and Meara quickly realized just how much of Gotham depended on Wayne Enterprises to solve situations across the city – from designing carports at an apartment complex to engineering a water treatment plant. Even charities from the non-profit department crossed with Urban Planning; a breast cancer research facility was already in the works as part of fundraising efforts from non-profit events Bruce had hosted through the company and his personal life.

Gianna stomped by – purse in hand – a few minutes before noon, leaving Meara to assume her shift was now over and she could attend to lunch before heading to her afternoon class. Sure enough, Meara nearly bumped into Carla on her way out of the room, the associate director's words immediately relieving the young woman of her duties for the day.

"You're free for lunch, Meara," Carla assured her warmly albeit speedily as she started to turn again. "I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

"Thank you, Carla, I'll see you then," Meara smiled gratefully and hurried to grab her purse out of the new office.

While Meara definitely wanted lunch, she also didn't want to be late for her class waiting on a lengthy delivery. After a brief moment of hesitation, Meara decided on the same decision she made with the file cabinets.

Gretchen wasn't sitting at her station when Meara approached the entry to their wing of the department, but Julia ended a phone call just as the younger woman stepped forward.

"Julia, could you help me out?" Meara inquired politely, tablet clasped to her stomach and purse hanging off one shoulder.

"Sure," the strawberry blonde assured her with a smile, setting aside a sheaf of papers. "What do you need?"

"I'm sure you've learned I'm new to Gotham," Meara began cautiously. "The thing is, I don't know many restaurants around here. I need lunch, but I also need it pretty quickly so I'm not late for class."

"Big Belly," Julia replied instantly, leaving Meara to flounder for a moment in surprise before she recalled the burger restaurant from her beloved comics and shows.

Julia seemed to think Meara insulted, hurrying on to explain, "Big Belly _Burger_ , I mean. It's a restaurant. They're the best on time. I have their number right here."

In the blink of an eye, Julia wrote down the phone number from a paper pinned to the bulletin board beside her.

"Here you go," the secretary offered up her note for the brunette with a smile.

"Thank you, Julia," Meara smiled at the other woman, already pulling out her phone. Realizing it was her work cell phone, the young woman hesitated only until Julia added one last thought.

"It's okay to use it for other things," Julia grinned a little at Meara's overly worried behavior.

Half laughing with embarrassment, Meara nodded her understanding and typed in the phone number without another thought.

In her original reality, Meara couldn't remember fast food ever tasting so good. Susan Stein's class – even as boring as it was – passed by a little less dully after having polished off a delicious burger and fries from Big Belly.

With a second day at work and class under her belt, Meara felt some measure of relief for another day's fairly simple passing.

Stepping into the foyer of Wayne Manor at last – Alfred's heavenly dinner wafting into Meara's nose as usual – the young woman abruptly noticed a number of odd-shaped packages still wrapped in plastic and waiting at the foot of the main stairs.

"Meara," Bruce greeted her, appearing from the lounge in a sudden poof rather like his alter-ego.

"Hi, Bruce," Meara greeted the billionaire calmly in return, and then gestured at the waiting packages. "What are these?"

"Your media," the dark-haired man shrugged gracefully. "Television, Media Player, Music Player, Speakers."

"I have the feeling my computer is finished as well," Meara pondered out loud, smiling a little when Bruce rolled his eyes.

"I finished your cell phone also," Bruce commented with a reprimanding expression.

"I still don't know what to do about a case," Meara shrugged apologetically, purse lifting with the movement as she stepped into the lounge beside her host.

"Well, I picked an unusual design for now," Bruce allowed for the lapse quietly.

"Thank you," Meara nodded just as Bruce's cell phone rang shrilly.

Glancing at the screen, the billionaire quietly sighed and picked up the call with a familiar name, "Lois."

Held in waiting as the reporter chattered to Bruce, Meara wondered what the intrepid woman needed now.

"Thank you, I'll tell her," Bruce ended the call and instantly faced Meara with a calm expression. "You're interview will occur at 'The Podium.' It's a restaurant at the top of the Durham building in Metropolis."

"Which is where, exactly?" Meara inquired, brows rising.

"Not too far from The Daily Planet," Bruce summarized simply, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Good to know," said the young woman with a roll of her eyes, following Bruce when he strolled back out into the foyer.

"I have no idea where to put all this," Meara commented with a slight frown, arms crossed as she looked over the waiting boxes.

"I thought we could help you with that," the billionaire explained.

"We?" Meara couldn't help repeating in surprise.

"That means us," Dick cut in dryly, jabbing a finger first at his bother, then at himself, as they approached.

"Well, with a whole team behind me, I can't go wrong, can I?" Meara decided with surprising ease and turned to head upstairs, leaving the three Wayne men to begin carrying furniture while the young woman changed into something more comfortable.

Having spent a far better night's rest after the comfortable evening spent rearranging her room to its completion, Meara headed into work with more of a spring in her step. Julia and Gretchen greeted Meara in new comradeship after both having helped the youngest of their small workgroup adjust to her new life and job.

Carla, Neil, and Amanda left for meetings shortly after Meara arrived, leaving the young woman in the hands of the self-appointed grinch that was Gianna.

It seemed Neil and Carla had at least agreed far enough to give Gianna tasks Meara needed to complete, rather than leaving the decision solely to the reluctant Italian woman. Given this new arrangement, Meara didn't feel quite as exuberant as she had upon heading into work in the first place.

Gianna seemed equally as unenthusiastic as her ward, scowling at her computer screen when the young new assistant walked into the elder's office for instruction. Merely sliding over a paper with succinct, unhelpful instructions written on it, Gianna failed to even acknowledge her trainee otherwise, but continued to type whatever work she had open on the computer.

Recalling precisely how she had handled such a problem the previous day, Meara accepted the unpleasant situation and headed silently out to Julia and Gretchen. Eyeing the sheets of paper in the youngest woman's hands, both secretaries rolled their eyes and kindly, silently set about helping Meara to flesh out the actual tasks laid before her.

Lunch couldn't come soon enough after an entire afternoon full of Gianna's cold, unhelpful behavior flooding every completed task with the sensation of not having done well enough. Hating the thought of eating up in the department where Gianna's chilly reception continued to oppress, Meara scheduled the delivery for the main floor of Wayne Enterprises and headed down with a sense of relief buried in her bones.

The smattering of tables set up for employees just off the main lobby stood empty, not a soul taking up space in the area when Meara stood to wait out her lunch with a bit of impatience and agitation that wouldn't leave her. Meara blamed Gianna, not unfairly, for the edgy sensations crowding her mind even in the silent room.

"Waiting on lunch?" a light-toned male voice intruded, leading Meara to turn around with great surprise.

Wide-eyed and startled, the young woman found herself face to face with a blond-haired man she couldn't help finding familiar for some reason.

"On Big Belly, yes," Meara offered briefly.

"Coleman Reese," the accountant smiled more awkwardly than comfortably, offering a hand as Meara realized precisely why he was so familiar. "Accounting."

Taken aback by the abrupt introduction, Meara nonetheless accepted the waiting hand congenially and replied, "Meara Nolan. Urban Planning."

"You're Mr. Wayne's new recruit," Coleman smiled more genuinely, though a touch of discomfort crowded those brown eyes. "There's a lot of talk among the secretaries about your apparent renovation skills."

"Apparent?" Meara repeated with a raised brow, insulted not only by the slight on her skill set, but by the possible insinuation of her relationship with Bruce being less than decent.

"I didn't mean it that way. I apologize… Though the secretaries might have that in mind, I admit."

Reese fumbled slightly, blinking rapidly as his very awkward nature made itself openly known.

Carefully withholding judgment until she knew the man better, Meara examined his appearance in one cursory inspection. Standing only an inch or two taller than Meara did, Coleman Reese with his dark blond-colored hair and wide open forehead was hardly an intimidating figure, even when matched with his sharp black suit and crisp white shirt. His tie even lent to the air of weakness, its dark golden-brown color somehow not well paired with his clothing.

In fact, everything about the accountant's clothing felt unkempt in some strange way. Not necessarily ripped and ruined in any way, but rather untended nonetheless. Mentally shaking herself, Meara accepted it might be an aftereffect of what he had experienced years earlier and let it go.

Attempting to be polite yet keep her space, Meara asked distantly of the accountant, "Are you waiting for lunch as well?"

"Yes, I am," Coleman smiled, again touched by slight awkwardness. "Not Big Belly, though. I wouldn't want to become what I eat, after all."

The seemingly untended man emitted a chuckle far too stiff and stilted to be real, immediately put out by Meara's unbending expression and utter lack of amusement regarding Coleman's try at humor.

"That looks like your lunch now," the accountant almost burst with, visibly relieved to end the uncomfortable conversation.

Indeed, Meara turned and noticed a young man walking through the lobby with a Big Belly food bag and wearing their logo on his shirt.

Turning back to her unexpected companion, Meara found Coleman Reese had disappeared from her side and the room as a whole.

Checking around her in absolute surprise, Meara eventually scoffed at both Reese's cowardice and his rudeness. The accountant could at least have excused himself respectably if he was so unhappy with the turn of their introduction.

Rolling eyes heavenward, Meara shoved thoughts of Coleman Reese's strangeness from her head and focused on obtaining her lunch before she had to leave for school.

* * *


End file.
